


Angel, Down We Go Together

by Das_verlorene_Kind



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Van Days, Wingfic, angel!Pete
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-04-19 16:17:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14241108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Das_verlorene_Kind/pseuds/Das_verlorene_Kind
Summary: “Why are you here?” Patrick asks through gritted teeth. His hands, clenched into fists, are shaking. His whole body is shaking, and there’s a coldness flooding him, turning his blood into ice. Ice. Ice and snow-white skin. White and a clash of red against it – no, no, please no. He can’t think about this right now.But Pete died. He’s fucking dead, except, he’s sitting on Patrick’s bed now, looking very much alive and well except for those giant featherythings.Chest rising and falling, Pete’s fuckingbreathing, how is that possible?!“You died,” Patrick says, and then, what little self-restraint he has vanishes. “You died,” Patrick repeats, and with each word, his voice gets louder, “youdied, Pete, you’re fuckingdead, sowhyare you here?!”Pete is not bothered by the screaming, he looks aggravatingly calm and just a little sad. Beautiful brown eyes looking at Patrick, and they look so real. So alive.“I’m here to offer closure, Patrick.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go, folks, my newest fic! I've been working on this for a while now, and I am very happy to present this to you. Title stolen, as always, from a Morrissey song. Although if you want a proper song for this fic, just listen to his "My Dearest Love" on repeat. Forever. 
> 
> Thanks to Snitches for being an awesome and encouraging beta reader!
> 
> Please check the tags, and be aware that this fic deals with death, and death ain't easy or pretty. You have been warned. 
> 
> All artwork done by me!

 

 

 

 

 

Four boys crammed into their old van, with big hopes and even bigger dreams.

They’re on their way to New York to shoot a music video – a real music video! – for Grand Theft Autumn, like a real, professional band. Patrick still can’t believe it.

Album deals and tours, their name on posters. He remembers the overexcited kiss Pete pressed to his cheek once they had signed the record contract, “we’re gonna be big, Trickster, we’ll own this world” he had whispered, a hushed promise only for Patrick’s ears. “Couldn’t have done this without you. You know I love you, right?”

Patrick had laughed, and kissed him back. Not enough. If he had known, if he had known, if only he had known –

 

But Patrick didn’t know.

 

Right now, as they’re driving towards New York, Patrick is buzzing with excitement and hope. He’s all starry-eyed as he watches the white landscape pass from the window. There’s snow outside, so much snow, and he distantly recalls Pete babbling about how he wants there to be snow in the music video, too.

All he knows is that Fall Out Boy could be something huge. An audience screaming their names, crowds bigger than ever, fans singing along to their songs. Their first real album, the whisper of their next already in the room, already scribbled into notebooks and beginning to compose in his mind. So much yet to come.

 

Right here, right now – everything is possible.

 

Until it isn’t.

 

Time slows down to a trickle, then freezes as the van gets off-track, crashes into the trees on the roadside.

 

Patrick can hear the sound of sharp metal bending and screaming, mixing with the cries of Joe, Andy’s shouts, Pete’s yelling. Glass shatters, bones break, skin gets torn apart; humans are screaming. It is a grotesque symphony that Patrick still hears in his nightmares, it’s the blood-soaked opera that has forever drained every last bit of music out of Patrick. After the accident, everything is left a distorted, horrendous mess. After hearing _this_ , how can anything ever sound good again?

Sharp pain explodes everywhere in Patrick’s body. Shards of glass pierce into his skin, everything hurts all at once. The impact knocks the air out of Patrick’s lungs, and then his head hits something hard enough to knock out the lights in his brain.

Everything is dizzy afterwards, but – blood – oh, too much blood! Red, red, there’s so much red. It stains the white snow and tan skin of Pete’s face. Red. Patrick sees red.

Everything goes black after that.

Next time Patrick regains consciousness, there’s screaming, and there’s white, so much white, there’s a hospital bed; crisp, white and clean. So white. No more red. No more blood.

Everything goes black again.

 

And when Patrick opens his eyes again, Pete is no more.

 

 

  
  
~*~

 

 

 

Patrick can’t recall how much time it’s been exactly since the accident. He tries not to think too hard about it.

His memories are a little fuzzy ever since, with heaps of white noise, white walls of a hospital, his mind is the equivalent of the whiteness of a blank page. He didn’t get away unscathed, there’s injuries, trauma, physically and mentally, everything inside of him is a mess. He tries not to think too hard about it.

 

He tries not to think at all.

 

The days go by, blur together until they become a gray pulp of indecipherable memories clogging up Patrick’s brain. He watches the sun rise, then set again, another day tucked away. The night seeps into the streets, and Patrick can’t sleep. That used the be _his_ thing, that used to be something that troubled _Pete_. How many nights spent awake together?

 

Not enough.

 

Today starts as any other day. Patrick hasn’t got much to do, just has his little part time job at the record store – the one he used to work in before the band started to take off, oh, what irony – and nothing else. His parents pay for the rest of his expenses, silently, with sadness in their eyes, no questions asked because they know the answer already. Patrick has been in a slump for all this time now, he knows people expect him to get better but the truth is, Patrick very much doubts that he will. He just doesn’t have the heart to tell everyone, so he goes through the day drawing as little attention to himself as possible, spends his free time away from the worried faces of friends and family.

Patrick sits home; it’s late in the afternoon, and Patrick watches the daylight make way for the nighttime. Shadows crawl out from the crack in the wall, darkness sprawls over the room. Patrick doesn’t mind. Snow starts to fall, a white blanket that suffocates the city’s noises and makes Patrick feel like he’s choking. He doesn’t like snow. White coldness brings too many bad memories drifting back up in the murky mush inside his head.

 

All alone in the world; that’s how Patrick likes it nowadays. Which is why he jumps when a sound disturbs the peaceful mood.

 

Three sharp knocks on his door. Patrick wants to ignore them. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone, he prefers solitude and silence. No one has any reason to talk to him anyway. People used to come to him, attempted to comfort him, and when it didn’t work, they stopped coming. No one wants to be around a broken person, but that’s okay with Patrick.

Three sharp knocks on the door, again. Patrick considers yelling for the person to go away, leave, abandon him like everyone else did. Like _Pete_ did.

Three sharp knocks on the door, _again_ , and this time Patrick has had it. He gets up, heads for the door with the clear intention of telling the intruder to fuck off.

When he opens the door, all words vanish from his mind.

 

It’s Pete who stands there, Pete, his best friend, the man he loved, the man who is dead and buried and rotting away in an overly expensive mahogany coffin. Pete.

Patrick feels the ground slipping away from under his feet.

His mind tells him Pete is dead. After all this time, decomposition must have started to gnaw through Pete’s skin, flesh, muscles, must’ve reduced him to nothing but a horrifying rotting husk. Pete is dead. Whoever – _whatever_ this thing is that looks like Pete, no, it can’t be him.

His eyes betray that thought, because the guy in front of him looks so much alive, so much like the real Pete. Black hair falling into his amber eyes, longer than Patrick remembers, tan skin unblemished and unhurt, and he isn’t wearing the fine suit that the funeral home put him in for the open casket; just a regular black hoodie and ripped jeans, scuffed Converse, exactly like Patrick pictures him in his happy times. In times he was _alive_.

 

There’s no coat, and no wetness from the snow that’s still falling outside.

Instead, there’s a pair of white wings folded behind his shoulders.

Patrick is going to be sick.

 

“May I come in?” Pete asks softly but urgently. His voice, fuck, how Patrick has longed to hear that again.

 

This is a dream. Or a nightmare.

 

The wings move, stretch out just a little, without making a sound. They’re so alive, so organic, but they just look wrong and terribly out of place. Just like their owner, standing in Patrick’s hallway with a pleading look in his eyes.

What is there to do? Patrick lets him in, watches as Pete enters his little apartment. The wings remain folded on his back, grotesquely sticking out of his body. An almost macabre thing of beauty. The feathers are so white… Patrick doesn’t like white.  

 

“Why are you here?” Patrick asks through gritted teeth. His hands, clenched into fists, are shaking. His whole body is shaking, and there’s a coldness flooding him, turning his blood into ice. Ice. Ice and snow-white skin. White and a clash of red against it – no, no, please no. He can’t think about this right now.

But Pete died. He’s fucking dead, except, he’s sitting on Patrick’s bed now, looking very much alive and well except for those giant feathery _things_.

Chest rising and falling, Pete’s fucking _breathing_ , how is that possible?!

“You died,” Patrick says, and then, what little self-restraint he has vanishes. “You died,” Patrick repeats, and with each word, his voice gets louder, “you _died_ , Pete, you’re fucking _dead_ , so _why_ are you here?!”

Pete is not bothered by the screaming, he looks aggravatingly calm and just a little sad. Beautiful brown eyes looking at Patrick, and they look so real. So alive.

“I’m here to offer closure, Patrick.” He speaks calmly, which somehow only infuriates Patrick even further. How often has he cried himself to sleep? How many days went down the drain of sadness, oh, how he has mourned Pete, cursed the day the accident happened, there has been sadness and anger for God knows how long and Pete just fucking dares to waltz in and be so goddamn nonchalant about it?

 

“I’m hallucinating,” Patrick says weakly, that’s a thing that happens, right? His brain doesn’t function properly ever since the accident, it’s not too far off to assume that it has given in just a little further into insanity. “You’re dead, and I’m just dreaming you up.”

“But I’m here, am I not?” Pete asks calmly, as if his death wasn’t the source for the constant cloud of misery fogging up Patrick’s life every day ever since the accident.

“What are you?” Patrick asks with anger, “an angel? a ghost? Haunting me from the afterlife?”

“You? Calling me an angel? How times have changed.” Pete lets out light chuckle, his laugh, his goddamn laugh is still the same and it tears Patrick’s heart apart. “If that’s what you want me to be, then I’m an angel, Rick.”

That’s the point Patrick snaps. How dare this creature, this _thing_ , how dare this imposter of his best friend, how dare the sick manifestation of Patrick’s malfunctioning brain call him by the name that only the real, alive Pete was allowed to use?

 

Drip, drip. Angels bleed gold.

 

“You’re dead!” Patrick screams, Pete pressed into the mattress underneath him, gold flowing from his nose where Patrick’s first punch hit him. The second one lands on the corner of his mouth, sends a sharp jolt of pain through Patrick’s arm.

“You’re dead!” Patrick screams a little louder, tears streaming down his face, dripping down and diluting the mess of shiny blood on Pete’s face. “You’re dead, Pete, you left me, you left me, how could you fucking _dare_ to do this to me?! _You left!_ ”

Patrick’s hand has scraped Pete’s teeth, he feels stinging and burning and sees red mixing with gold. Red and gold and the paleness of his own skin, that feels eerily familiar.

Pete catches his wrist before he can land another punch, and they struggle silently for a while. Pete doesn’t let go, but his eyes show no anger, there’s no fury or hot-headedness, nothing like their fights back when Pete was actually alive. Pete waits it out, until there’s no more resistance, until Patrick’s anger has vanished and he crumbles, gives in to the sobs, gives in and falls into Pete’s open arms.

The warmth of a human body, the slight stubble on Pete’s cheek, the smell of Pete’s neck, and Pete’s arms around him, strong and secure, patient and reassuring as they pat his back. It would be familiar, if not for the wings pressed against the mattress, their feathers resting softly against Patrick’s arms. Patrick cries, hot wet streams of salt that dampen Pete’s skin and clothes; he carelessly wipes the snot away with his sleeves from time to time, sobs until there’s nothing left.

How often has he cried for Pete over the past years? Patrick can’t remember. Countless times, an infinite amount of pearl droplets shed to mourn the man he loved, all in vain. The tears had stopped at some point, because crying hadn’t brought relief, had just let Patrick feel even emptier than before.

This time, when the flow of tears comes to an end, the gaping hole in Patrick’s heart seems to have closed, if just a little. Because Pete is here to comfort him, it’s no doubt, the man – ghost? Angel? Yes, Pete said he can call him angel, that’s what Patrick will go for, because it sounds so full of hope, rays of sunshine and absolution – the angel holding him no doubt is Pete. Maybe not quite the same Pete that Patrick used to know, but it’s Pete nonetheless, and Patrick will take it, he’ll take any form of Pete even if it’s just this weird, winged afterlife incarnation that’s currently staining the sheets with his strange, golden blood.

Patrick sits up a little, and looks at the mess on Pete’s face. Nothing seems broken, no split lips, his eyes without the shadow of an injury. Either he got lucky, or maybe angels have fast healing. Patrick tries not to think about it.

Pete’s face, he’s seen that last surrounded by white lilies in a casket, reconstructed and made up, and with enough make up that even Pete would’ve protested had he been alive. It had merely been a painted mask to cover death.

The wings frame Pete’s face in feathery white as well, but they look much prettier than the flowers. They look like a stage costume Pete would’ve worn; they suit him well. Patrick absent-mindedly wipes away a trace of glitter from Pete’s cheek. It’s pretty in its own morbid way, matches the warm brown skin underneath. So much better than red, he decides.

 

“I’m getting you a washcloth,” Patrick mumbles nonetheless. As pretty as angel Pete’s blood may be, he’d rather not see any blood at all.

Pete nods, and Patrick heads to his bathroom, grabs the first towels that fall into his hand. White, he wonders why the hell he ever bought white towels, it doesn’t matter.

He sits down next to Pete, at a moderate distance. Part of him yearns to close the distance, to haul Pete into the sheets and forget everything for a little while, a few blissful stolen minutes of oblivion. But Patrick doesn’t know whether Pete would even want any of that. After all, only one of them died, and the other got to live. Does Pete harbor a grudge against him for that? Has he spent the years of being apart as bitter as Patrick?

Patrick’s head hurts at these questions. It’s best not to think about that now.

“The wings are pretty.” Patrick shyly strokes over the feathers, marvels at how soft they feel. It’s still kind of wrong, and yet it starts to feel right. “Why are you bleeding gold?” he asks as he watches Pete carefully wiping his face.

“I don’t know,” Pete confesses as he stares at the stained towel.

“I kinda like it,” Patrick says, and a nervous giggle breaks out of him, something between a chuckle and a choked-back sob. It is so surreal, to talk to Pete again. Well, he’s done that a lot in his mind, screamed and cried and begged at an imaginary Pete, but _this_ one is alive. This one is real. “Very poetic, isn’t it? Fits you well, Pete.”

“You think so?” Pete smiles softly, wipes again over the half-dried crust of gold on his chin. “If you like it, then that’s how it will be.”

“No more bleeding,” Patrick says instantly, “I’m – forget it. And I’m sorry for hitting you, I just –“

“Never mind,” Pete interrupts him, cups Patrick’s chin with his fingers. “I understand. The whole situation is... A bit much.”

“You’re so calm.” Patrick can’t help but scoff a little. “Is that what being dead does to you? You seem much more sensible. I just…”

“Just wish I had been this way back when I was alive?”

“I wish you’d stop reading my mind,” Patrick grumbles, and Pete laughs again, warm and ugly and ah, how Patrick has missed this! His laugh sounds like hope and half-forgotten dreams, it reminds Patrick of post-show giddiness and four friends in a van – no. No. Wrong thought.

“I can’t read your mind.” Pete shakes his head, and sends Patrick a smile. “Death may have parted us, but I still know my Patrick.”

The words cause Patrick to shudder. He wants to laugh, because hearing that Pete hasn’t forgotten about him makes him so, so happy. He wants to scream and cry, because Pete confirms what Patrick has known for years – death parted them. Hearing it from Pete’s mouth, in his voice, from the man that should be a living human instead of this afterlife angel-incarnation makes Patrick’s chest ache.

 

“Why did you come back?”

Pete smiles again, it’s his soft, private smile that not many got to see. Patrick could still trace the line of his lips in his sleep. “I’m here to give you closure.”

“Closure?” Patrick repeats slowly. “Why?”

“Because your soul is stuck in grief, Patrick,” Pete says cautiously, “and if we don’t do this, we will both end up wandering limbo for all eternity. We need to find our ways back, and this is our only chance. Three days to make things right.”

Three days and a chance. Patrick looks away. He doesn’t want just three days, doesn’t want just one chance, he doesn’t want closure. All he has wanted was to lead a life with Pete. This pale excuse comes too late. Too late, and it’s too little. Patrick balls his hands into fists. It’s not enough, it will never be enough again as long as Pete is out there, cold, dead, rotting away. To make things right, how could that ever happen?

But it’s better than nothing, isn’t it?

Pete takes his hand, rubs over it until Patrick unclenches it, laces their fingers together like they always did. It’s so casual and familiar, it’s so easy and so little and damn it, why did life have to take Pete away from him?!

The tears are threatening to flow again, but Patrick holds them back, takes a deep breath instead.

“Limbo, you say?” Patrick pauses, lets the word rest on his tongue. “That doesn’t sound good, Pete. Is that where you’ve been after…?”

He can’t bring himself to say it, he can’t. Pete understands anyway.

“It’s been terrible ever since,” Pete says, absentmindedly squeezing Patrick’s hand. “You and I, we… I can’t bear the thought of seeing you suffer through this, Patrick. You deserve so much better.”

Suffer. Pete has suffered. Because of him. Guilt befalls Patrick as he imagines angel Pete wandering the wastelands of the afterlife, all alone, scared. Is that what it’s like? Patrick doesn’t dare to ask again, it seems Pete would rather not talk about the black rainbow of their missing years. No, that’s not what he wants for Pete at all. If he has to be dead, he deserves to rest in peace, at least. Patrick’s own grief shouldn’t make Pete suffer any further.

Three days. He’ll get Pete back for three days. Patrick rubs his thumb over the back of Pete’s hand, and asks: “What do we do?”

“What do you want to do?” Pete smiles again. Why has the world ever put a stop to that smile? “I’m here for your sake, Patrick.”

 

What does Patrick want to do? He doesn’t know. Despite all the time spent mourning, he’s never considered what he would do given a strange chance like this. He’d just yearned for his old life back. Not this weak compromise before death will tear Pete apart from him again. Oh no, no, not thinking about that. Limited time, okay, then damn it, Patrick will make use of it.

His mind feels blank – what does he want? Closure, how can he ever get that? His brain feels fuzzy and overwhelmed as everything blends together. Nothing makes sense anymore. But from the dark clouds in is brain, one bright image of regret emerges that sparks an idea.

 

“We never made it to New York,” Patrick whispers after a while. “You, me, Joe, and Andy in our van – Pete, I was so happy. The world was at our feet, New York and all our dreams seemed so close. I want us to go there. Even if it is years too late.”

Patrick bites his lip, and he has to look away. Has he even ever left Chicago after the accident? He can’t remember doing so. How could he go anywhere else in this world when the gravestone of a dead lover weighed him down?

“It’s just gonna be you and me, Patrick. As much as I’d like to, we can’t take Andy or Joe with us.”

“Oh.” Patrick stares at the hands in his lap. It seems unfair, that he’s the only one who gets a second chance at making things right. “There’s no way…?”

“No,” Pete says solemnly. “I don’t make the rules.”

“That’s sad, I wish the four of us could’ve been together again.”

Pete looks away, with hurt in his eyes. “So do I,” he whispers, and Patrick decides to drop the topic. It only makes Pete sad, and there’s nothing to be done about it.

“We’ll go to New York,” Patrick says firmly. “Without an accident, this time.” He takes Pete’s hand into his own, laces their fingers together in a gesture that seems so natural and familiar. “You and me on the road again… Won’t that be fun?”

“It will be,” Pete says with a nod, pretty lips curling into the pretty smile that has haunted the edge of Patrick’s vision ever since his death. Pete’s hand feels so warm in his, so alive, so Pete. There’s a last bit of stray golden blood caught in the corner of his mouth, and Patrick leans forward a little, wipes his thumb over it.  

Soft lips and Pete’s hot breath under the pad of his finger.

 

Patrick kisses him.

 

He can’t resist. He’s missed Pete so much, he’s missed everything about Pete, including intimacy.

 

Are angels capable of love?

 

With the way Pete kisses him back, the answer must be yes.

 

No hesitation and no question, as if there wasn’t a wall of time and the veil of death between them. Two tongues, two eager mouths, Pete’s lower lip caught between his teeth, Pete’s eyes fluttering under black lashes.

Three days can’t substitute for the lifetime of Pete that has been seized out of Patrick’s hand, it’s not the same as growing old together, it’s not enough, not enough, not enough. All the kisses they never had the chance to share burn on Patrick’s lips, all the kisses they will never be able to give each other make his eyes burn with tears; as if he hadn’t given Pete enough of those already.

Hands wandering under shirts, hasty and eager, searching for confirmation of reality. So close to what Patrick is used to, if it weren’t for the white wings sprouting from Pete’s shoulder blades. They make it difficult to pull off Pete’s shirt, although Patrick eventually manages to undress him.

Clothes are discarded in between frantic kissing and groping, as if they were exploring each other’s bodies for the first time again, back in Pete’s basement after band practice, back in Patrick’s room with the door locked.

 

Pete, laying down next to him, naked and gorgeous.

 

Warm, naked skin, the familiar black ink, framed by white feathers. More desperate kisses as Patrick splays his finger over Pete’s chest. He can feel Pete’s heartbeat, feels golden blood pump through his veins, the spark of the fragile life taken too soon. Patrick wants to scream upon the unfairness of it all.

Instead, he slides his hand down, travels over Pete’s taut stomach, follows the line of coarse hair, trails over the tattoo on his groin until he feels the heated flesh of Pete’s dick. It’s already hard, flushed red despite the golden angel blood, fuck, Patrick’s not going to question it.

Pete throws his head back, eyes squeezed shut. A soft _oh_ escapes his lips when Patrick wraps his fingers around his cock, thumbs over the slit and the sensitive underside of the ridge. He’s missed this, missed sharing their bodies, missed the kisses and the lust pulsing through their veins, all young and carefree love he’d thought to last forever.

 

He’s just missed Pete so much.

 

Patrick lies down next to him on his side. Pete rolls over as well, reaches out to guide Patrick’s hand back to his body. Patrick gives Pete’s dick a few pumps, rough and a little uncoordinated. It gets Pete to moan nonetheless, the sweetest little sound that Patrick thought he’d never get to hear again. Patrick presses their lips together, licks into Pete’s mouth, tries to taste the saccharine sounds that mix with the salt of tears Patrick hasn’t noticed he is crying.

Pete throws his leg over Patrick’s thigh, and then his hand is on Patrick’s cock, eager to reciprocate. Patrick almost sobs when Pete starts to move his hand, it’s so good, it’s all he ever wanted out of life – Pete, just Pete. Warm fingers of a well-known hand, the smell of Pete’s skin, all just thrown off a little by the feathers Patrick swears he can feel trailing over his skin. He doesn’t open his eyes to look, doesn’t want to ruin the moment. Instead, Patrick bucks his hips, tries to fuck harder into a hand that finally isn’t his own. No one else has ever touched him, not before, not after Pete died. No one ever will.

Neither of them lasts long, both burning with a desire that has pent up for too long now. Patrick comes first, whimpers while Pete strokes him through his orgasm until he’s shivering from the intensity of it. Two more strokes and Pete comes as well, adding to the mess of sticky cum in between their bodies.

For a while, Patrick relishes in the afterglow, that welcome short-lived escape from reality.

 

When he moves his hand up to cup Pete’s chin, Pete leans forward, mouth open, tongue darting out between his shiny, wet lips to lick away the mess on Patrick’s fingers. Patrick pushes them in further, watches Pete’s eyes look at him with lust as his cheeks hollow a little, too sinful a look for a supposed angel.

Patrick feels the heat of Pete’s mouth, feels life pulsing under his veins when he rests his other hand against Pete’s neck. Thumbs over the carotid, thinks about red blood pulsing through it. Except Pete is dead, and this incarnation of him bleeds a much prettier shade.

Alive, Pete is temporarily alive nonetheless, that’s all that matters, no matter how short the time. Patrick withdraws his fingers, slides them down over Pete’s chest, his abs, teases his cock, hardening again under the well-known touch. Pete whines a little, tries to grind closer, but Patrick doesn’t want another hasty handjob. He slides his fingers further down, over Pete’s balls, presses against the spot right behind them. It keens a cry from Pete, ah, even as an angel he has inherited the weakness of his earthly counterpart. Pleasure pours into Patrick’s stomach, and the same glimmer of lust must spark his eyes. He runs his finger further along, in between Pete’s cheeks, tentatively resting against the tight pucker there.  

“Please,” Pete whispers weakly, his amber eyes peeking through his fringe repeating the plea silently. Patrick has only waited years to hear him say that again, too long, it’s been too long since he’s seen those eyes look at him, full of an unlived life and undreamed dreams.

Patrick sits up, then leans over to his nightstand, finds a bottle of lube in the drawer. Why that is even here, Patrick doesn’t know. There hasn’t been any other man since Pete, just white loneliness as a bright pain in his chest, the black fog of missing him always at the edge of his vision. There can never be another man, Patrick just knows.

Pete sits up as well, crawls into Patrick’s lap and slings his arms around his shoulders. The wings brush over Patrick’s thigh, make him shudder a little. As pretty as they may be, they serve as an unfriendly reminder of death. They’re so white, white, Patrick doesn’t like white.

But he likes Pete, too much to be bothered by any of this.

 

Patrick drizzles the lube over his hand, places his slicked-up fingers in between Pete’s legs. Pete nods, and Patrick crosses two fingers, slowly slides them in.

Alive or an angel, Pete is still so fucking tight. He’s moaning wantonly into Patrick’s ear, thighs shaking a little as he rocks back against Patrick’s hand. Patrick watches him, entranced with the sight he thought he’d never get again.

Then, Pete slides down a hand to Patrick’s dick, hard again as well, as if he were still that horny teen that fell in love with Pete all those years ago. He’s throbbing, yearning for the touch of the man he believed to be dead for so long and who’s now straddling his lap in a parody of being alive.

It’s still better than nothing.

A third finger enters Pete, and Pete’s hand on his dick is driving Patrick crazy, like the lovesick teen he isn’t anymore.

“Fuck me,” Pete pants, and he doesn’t have to ask twice.

More lube on Pete’s hand, then, more lube on Patrick’s dick. He kinda wants to suggest a condom, but he isn’t sure if he even has one. Why bother if there’s never going to be anyone after Pete?

Pete reaches for his cock with a determined look, lines it up with his entrance. Patrick just lets him, it’s so nice to give up control, it’s so fucking satisfying to see Pete taking the lead when Patrick has believed him to be dead all this time.

He sinks into Pete’s tight heat, delirious, far out of his mind. Tight, tight, tight, despite all the prep. Angel Pete may not have shared intimacies while wandering around in limbo either. Such earthly pleasure might usually be below his kind. Right now though, Pete is fucking desperate, all voluptuousness and want. More _ohs_ and _ahs_ escape his pretty lips as he slides down further on Patrick’s cock, a whimper once he’s all the way inside. Patrick grabs his hips, digs his fingers into soft, warm flesh; he never wants to let go again.

They stay like that for a moment, Pete panting, drops of sweat glistening in his skin, and Patrick to enthralled with the sight. He slides his hand down in between Pete’s cheeks, over the space where they’re connected, feels Pete’s hole stretched around his cock. Pete moans when Patrick’s finger teases over his rim, he’s a shivering mess already. It’s been too long, and neither of them will last long.

Patrick slides a hand around Pete, pulls him as close as possible. He finds feathers under his grip, feels the wings jerking a little under his touch, straining against his embrace. They’re still so inhuman.

He wraps the fingers of his other hand around Pete’s cock, hard and leaking already.

Pete starts to move, slow at first; up, then down, down, down, pushes Patrick’s dick as far inside of him as possible, crying out a little when Patrick bucks his hips a little. He’s breathing heavily until Patrick catches his mouth for more kisses, urging Pete to move faster by twitching his hips again.

 

Lips in search for kisses to conceal words that are lost forever.

 

Translucent tears. Pete kisses them away, gently, lips brushing over Patrick’s wet face.

 

Feathers a soft whisper on their burning skin.

 

Pete comes first, clenches down around Patrick’s cock as he spills hot, slick white over Patrick’s hand. Patrick buries his head in the nape of Pete’s neck, squeezes his eyes shut as he takes in the warmth of Pete’s body, the strong grip of his fingers, muscles working under inked skin. Release follows not long after in the form of a brilliant orgasm turning everything into bright golden fire.

When the world turns back to normal, angel Pete is still there, now kneeling next to him with the towel in his hand. Patrick tries to ignore the smudges of gold on it as Pete cleans them up. Once Pete is done, they lay down on the mattress together, bodies close and limbs entangled like so many times before. Except for the strange presence of Pete’s wings, still felt when Patrick slings his arms around him. Why must they be so gleaming white? Patrick doesn’t like white.

“Get a good night’s sleep,” Pete whispers softly. “We’re heading out for New York tomorrow.”

Patrick nods wordlessly, before he falls into a dreamless slumber.

 

 

 

The dawn of a new day peeks through the curtains. Patrick blinks, annoyed; why is there so much light? When was the last time he has opened those curtains, even?

“Rise and shine,” a voice says, Pete’s voice, right. The memories flood back into Patrick’s mind as he sits up with a groan. “We’re going on a trip, Trickster.”

Patrick doesn’t want to get up. He doesn’t want to go anywhere. Why can’t they just stay in bed forever? Pete and him on a lazy morning, the sun painting Pete a pretty shade of gold. That has always suited him well. Gold, yes, Patrick likes that.

“I got everything set up,” Pete hums, he’s all dressed again, wings folded on his back. “Let’s go.”

Patrick doesn’t want to. But three days is all they have, so there’s no arguing here. The sky is blue, but the world is still coated in white snow, shimmering in the morning light. Patrick scowls, and closes the curtains.

It’s cold outside; Patrick has to cut two slits into one of his old coats so that it fits over Pete’s wings. “Won’t people notice them?” He asks, running a finger over the soft feathers, matching the color of the snow.

“No.” Pete stretches them a little; feathers tickling over Patrick’s face, and he feels the air draught ghosting over his skin. “No one will notice me at all, Patrick. They can’t. Because I don’t belong into this world.”

Right. Pete doesn’t belong here. Patrick feels the coldness seeping back into his veins, and it has nothing to do with the outside temperature.

 

Wrapped up in coats, hats, and scarves, they stumble out onto the street. Just as Patrick is about to ask how the hell they’ll get to New York, that question is answered by a white van parked right in front of his building.

“Couldn’t you have chosen a better car?” Patrick grumbles, he feels anxiety clawing at his chest at the mere thought of getting into that car again. Of course it’s not the same van, it can’t be, their van has been crushed and destroyed, just like Pete. That thought still doesn’t help the fear that’s overtaking Patrick.

Pete shakes his head. “No. It couldn’t be another one.” The way he says this and the firm look he sends Patrick makes it clear that it’s not up for debate.

Patrick just sighs, and nods. He’s not familiar with the rules of afterlife apparitions.

It’s not the same. There’s no instruments or any other gear, there’s no duffle bags, no empty bags of junk food scattered all over, there’s no Andy and Joe anymore. It’s just an empty van, loaded only with dead dreams; one of them sitting right next to Patrick. Pete starts the engine, and Patrick looks away, out of the window. Snow, and dead trees amongst the grayness of the dirty city. He feels Pete’s hand on his own, a soothing gesture that still can’t calm the tempest raging in Patrick’s heart.

They drive in silence, and Patrick drifts off to sleep until Pete shakes him awake.

“We’re taking a little detour,” Pete says with a grin, and gestures out of the window. Lake Michigan and the lights of the navy pier stretch before their eyes, and Patrick shudders. He hasn’t been here in so long, and for good reason.  

Patrick remembers the sunny days of summer, golden gleams over the ocean when Pete had taken him here for a date neither of them could really afford, being young and broke and in a band. _Too touristy_ and _too expensive_ weren’t any protests that Pete had accepted though, so Patrick had just gone along with it.

There were kisses that tasted like the cotton candy Pete had bought him, tasted like the last careless summer and a hint of Pete’s laugh. Wonders and excitement, not really because of anything the pier had to offer, but because it was time spend with Pete, and everything Pete touched became magical.

Repeating old memories, is that closure? Patrick isn’t sure.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The pier is mostly cleared of snow, back to efficiency, up and running as they enter. The lights sparkle, the music is bright and cheery, and no one seems to mind that an angel walks among them, hands laced together with Patrick’s, golden blood and a pair of wings marking him as someone who doesn’t belong here.

On a melancholic whim, Patrick buys them cotton candy on one of the stands. It’s white, but this white is a a good memory for once so Patrick doesn’t mind. Pete’s eyes sparkle when Patrick hands it to him, and he grins when he shoves the first cloud of sugar into his mouth. Patrick allows Pete to feed him the next batch of candy, feels the sugar melting away into sweet nothing in his mouth as Pete’s fingers linger a little too long on him.

 

Sticky-sweet lips find Patrick’s for a kiss; Pete tastes like candy, like first and last love, like saccharine sadness.

 

Before Patrick knows it, they’re standing in front of the Centennial Ferris wheel again. Time has passed, it feels like a lifetime ago that Patrick had been that laughing teen who only superficially protested Pete’s sentimental idea of taking an overpriced ride on a tacky tourist attraction.

The Centennial Ferris wheel of course hasn’t changed at all. It just goes round and round and round, unbothered by human tragedy, immune to the world’s sadness, and it will spin another century, until forever, maybe. They get a cabin together, just them watching the city appear on the horizon as the metal construction lifts them up in the air.

Pete huddles closer to Patrick, takes his hand. He’s frowning as he eyes the skyline of Chicago, glimmering and glittering against the white of the snow and the blue of the sky.

“I’m sorry I broke my promise. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you the world, Patrick.”

“I wouldn’t want a world that doesn’t have you in it anyway,” Patrick whispers back.

Pete sniffles, and turns away. The wings folded on his back are turned to Patrick now, and Patrick hesitates. He doesn’t like white. He doesn’t like Pete being dead.

 

 

Maybe, memories can’t be recreated. There can never be the two of them together laughing as they walk the pier, there can never be them walking Chicago hand in hand, dreaming how one day the city will love them back as much as they do. But no one can take the happy memories away either.

Patrick carefully hugs Pete from behind, buries his face into the layers of feathers sprouting from Pete’s body. Not human, but still Pete. Patrick could get used to them. Even if it feels sad right now, Patrick knows he’ll cherish the moment for all eternity nonetheless. Suddenly, the weight on his chest seems to lighten, as a little bit of warmth floods his body.

Pete stifles a sob, then, his wings flap, motioning Patrick away.

“You’re missing the view,” Pete says quietly, with a small smile as he holds out his arm. Patrick slides closer, lets himself get pulled into the embrace. Pete’s arm around his waist, and one of Pete’s wings spread out around them, in an attempt to shield them from the bad things of the world.

“I love you,” Patrick says quietly, “I know I shouldn’t, I know I should move on but – Pete, I can’t, I could never stop loving you.”

“Me neither,” Pete whispers back. “We don’t need to stop loving each other, Patrick. We just need to stop letting our love twist us into something desperate and ugly. I want you to have peace, and I want you to be happy.”

Patrick nods, even though he’s not sure if that’s ever possible. Two more days to find out. Pete leans in for a kiss, and he tastes like the last hint of sugar.

 

They watch as the Ferris wheel turns, lowers them to the ground again. Cold wind blows into Patrick’s face when they exit the cabin, it’s strong enough that Pete almost falls to the ground when he stretches his wings a little. So, they remain folded on his back as they walk up to the van, squished between his body and the seat back as Pete drives on. Patrick watches as the pier disappears behind them, smaller and smaller until it’s nothing but a faint memory on the horizon as they leave Chicago behind. Sadness overcomes Patrick; he knows they’ll never come back here together.

With a deep sigh, Patrick turns around, and looks at the road ahead, Pete’s smile and white feathers in the corner of his eyes.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are we done with the angst? Oh, we are not. We are not.  
> Thanks to Snitches for being such a brave beta reader! 
> 
> The photo mentioned here [actually exists by the way](https://static.tumblr.com/5fe0dab411db65a811cad6093cadd092/q3lv6ws/bNioaq0c8/tumblr_static_e1fmylgsq60wc8cgkgwk4kgco_640_v2.jpg). 
> 
> As always, all art done by me!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Endless white landscapes stretch before their eyes, each inch of the world covered in snow.   


Patrick doesn’t like snow. He doesn’t like white.   


There’s nothing but silence between them. Patrick turned off the radio as soon as Pete tried to turn it on. He can’t stand any sort of music playing, be it the radio or the strum of his own guitar, abandoned and shoved into his closet for God knows how long now. The only reason Patrick still has his job at the record store is because he’s too apathetic to get up and walk away, and maybe because he’s a masochist. Seeing people excited for music sparks dark, twisted pain inside of him, but that pain has just enough of his own old love for music in it to make it feel good, hurting in the best-worst way possible.   
  
Pete just drives, never looking up for any road signs, never stopping to check any sort of map. Patrick doesn’t question it; with the wings sprouting from his back and the golden blood pumped through his veins by a heart that has stopped working years ago, it’s not difficult to believe that angel Pete just knows the way.   
  
Patrick squirms in his seat as a sudden realization hits him. He’s in the company of a dead man trapped in a caricature of a human’s body, they’re in the mockery of their old van, so by whatever logic this afterlife absolution works, it means there’s only one route angel Pete could choose. Which means – fuck, it means they’ll come across an unmarked spot on the map, unimportant and unseen by everyone else. But for Patrick, it’s the place that marked the end of their ambitions, and the end of Pete’s life. A blank spot that robbed his life of sense and painted almost everything in his memories as white noise.   


“Actually, there’s something I wanna see,” Patrick blurts out. The words feel heavy on his tongue, but something forces them to be said. “The crash site. I want… I need to see it. If that’s okay with you…”   
  
Pete’s hands clutch the steering wheel as he stares at the road ahead, lower lip caught between ivory teeth. The site of the accident, the place where one of them fucking died; that’s a huge request.   
  
It’s going to hurt. It’ll hurt them both, Patrick knows. But who says closure comes easily? There’s a price to pay for everything, isn’t there?   
  
“I need to see it. Need to see it’s real, that it’s… That this all really happened.” Patrick’s voice is small, almost lost over the sound of the engine. He knows it’s real, of course, given he’s sat in the same cursed faulty van (white, the van was white; yes, white really is a terrible color!) that steered right into the deadly trees, he knows death has really happened. But accepting it and coming to terms with his loss is a whole different ordeal, the dead man sitting next to him is proof enough.   
  
“It’s very much real,” Pete says in a hoarse voice. His wings flap helplessly, trapped between the seat and his back, making it impossible to move them. They fit in well with the seemingly endless snowy landscape that’s passing by outside the window. “We’ll go, Patrick, so you can see for yourself.”   
  
Pete stares out of the window, contemplating; brows furrowed a little, barely peeking out under his fringe. When did his hair get so long? While he was a failed angel stumbling through the wastelands of limbo?   
  
“We can visit tomorrow,” Pete says eventually, “it’s on our way, anyway.”   
  
Patrick looks away. “I know.”   
  
On our way. Scorn makes Patrick scoff, and his breath fogs on the cold window of the van, hides white behind more white.   
  
This was only one of oh so many roads Patrick had wanted to travel with Pete, only one of the many paths that he and Pete deserved to walk on. Now, it’s determined to be their last and only.   


Life isn’t fair. Death is even more unfair. 

  
For a while, there’s just silence. Patrick watches as the road passes by, infinite amounts of anonymous landscapes and distant cities covered in snow, glittering in the daylight. Once in a while, Pete reaches out for him, brushes a hand over Patrick’s, fingertips kissing his knuckles, caressing his cheek, a soft, reassuring squeeze of his shoulder. Patrick burns, he’s driven mad by the desire to touch back, but he just can’t bring himself to reciprocate. He’s sure that touching Pete with the knowledge of evanescence will only further his pain.   
  
He’s lost Pete once already. How hard will it be to lose him a second time?   
  
  
  
“You want to stop for some food?” Pete asks eventually, and Patrick knows there can only be one place to stop.   
  
It’s a small diner tucked away next to a gas station. Laughter flashes through Patrick’s mind, scraps of distant memories back when there were two other people with them in the van. Four boys, laughing and squabbling as they approach the diner, arguing over who’s going to pay for the food. Four boys ready to take the world. It seems like a lifetime ago. When did he last even talk to Joe or Andy? Patrick isn’t sure. He doesn’t like the ghosts of his old life haunting the empty husk of his new one.   
  
Patrick gets out of the car, feels asphalt under his boots, wet and slippery. The snow has melted, reduced to piles of grey, ugly goo. The white of Pete’s wings stands out sharply against the dirty snow and pastel sky. He takes Patrick’s hand; it’s cold and limp in Pete’s grip as they walk over to the diner.   
  
The glass door glows golden, promising warmth and food.  They’re seated at a booth too big for just two people, and Patrick knows exactly why. The silent ghosts of two excluded friends demand their space.   
  
Pete sits opposed to him, hands propped up on the table, wings straining against the backrest of the bench. The missing people’s absence is felt with every breath, and the memories lingering the place are threatening to suffocate Patrick. 

  
Joe complaining about being oh so hungry, Andy complaining about the lack of vegan options. Pete almost spilling his soda. Them asking a waitress to take a picture of the four of them, with the recently acquired digital camera that Pete has been obsessed with. Patrick is sure that photo still exists somewhere, their smiles frozen in time perfectly, forever. 

  
Pete’s hand on his brings him back to reality, where Pete is dead, where the Pete sitting in front of him has too long hair and a too sad smile, a pair of wings and blood that’s no longer red. Patrick withdraws his hand, and the order he mumbles to the waitress are the only words spoken until they finish their food.   
  
When they’re done and Patrick stares at their empty plates – white, smudged with ketchup and the greasy remains of their food – Patrick’s chest tightens as more memories wash over him.   
  
Carefree and juvenile and excited about not being completely broke, they had decided on splitting a strawberry Sundae. White and red and the gold of Pete’s laugh, the glimmer in his eyes.   
  
It’s just a random memory, one of oh so many and yet not enough, but Patrick just wants to see that one more time. He cracks a smile that’s halfway between laughing and crying. “Hey, Pete. Let’s split dessert.”   


The ice cream Sundae looks just like Patrick imagined it; of course, why would it not. A million cars can crash, Pete could die a thousand times, decades could pass but somewhere, there’s a bubble of happiness, a place free of care for the horrible things happening outside, where the same ice cream Sundaes and hot coffee is served until humanity’s last breath. Somehow, that feels very reassuring, and Patrick feels warmth flooding his body. On impulse, he reaches for Pete’s hand, laces their fingers together. Thumbs over the veins on Pete’s wrist, feels blood pumping through them. It’s the first time he’s touched Pete on his own account since last night’s lovemaking.   
  
Somewhere, there is still happiness. And when Pete squeezes his hand, Patrick thinks he’s found a little bit of it.

 

 

 

 

  
  
Patrick reaches for the bright red cherry on top of the pile of white cream. The syrupy cherry is staining his fingers, sticky and red like blood, Patrick shudders upon bitter memories. But he clenches his jaw, and with a trembling arm, holds the cherry out to Pete.  
  
With a grin, Pete leans forward. Warm lips linger a little too long on Patrick’s fingers, wrap around them while Pete’s tongue drags across them, licking off the syrup.   
  
“You’re the only person I know who likes these damn cherries,” Patrick says with a smile, repeating a conversation they’ve had God knows how many times. “I’m not even sure if they qualify as actual food. They’re gross, Pete.”  
  
“Nu-uh,” Pete protests while chewing the offending cherry. His Adam’s apple bops up and down as he swallows, leaving only a smudge of red syrup on his lips. Patrick wants to kiss it away. No more red. No more blood. No more death.   
  
Patrick almost knocks over the Sundae between them as he leans forward.   
  
The kiss tastes like artificial sweetness, a saccharine substitute as fake as angel Pete himself. But it also tastes like Pete, alive, warm and promising, like shared laughs and youthful love blooming deep in their chests, and somewhere in the back of his mind, Patrick is sure he can hear Joe and Andy laugh and groan in fake protest over this exaggerated display of sappy affection.   


When he pulls away, Pete looks surprised, but happy. “What was that for?”   


“For being you,” is what Patrick says.    
  
_For all the kisses we didn’t share_ , is what Patrick doesn’t say. Doesn’t need to say. 

  
Patrick takes his spoon, digs into the Sundae, scoops up a bit of the cream on top, and holds it out to Pete.   
  
Pete does the same for him, silver spoon clunking against Patrick’s as he scoops up the syrup-drenched ice cream.    
  
For a while, Patrick can lose himself in the moment. Can be a young, carefree teen again, deeply in love with the first and last man he’ll ever open his heart up to, ready to take on a world whose true cruelty hasn’t ruined them yet.   
  


Back in the van, Pete’s finger lingers over the button for the radio. Patrick brushes it away. Confusion is in Pete’s eyes as he cocks his head, a silent question on his lips.   
  
“I can’t,” Patrick whispers weakly, “music makes me sick.”  
  
“That can’t be true,” Pete says quietly, catches Patrick’s hand in his own. “I know you still have music inside of you, Patrick.”  
  
Patrick knows how weird that must sound, especially to Pete. Music is what Patrick wanted to devote his life to, until his life decided to reward that dream with pain and death. A smile drenched in bitterness tugs at his lips, more baring teeth than anything; it makes Pete flinch, his wings nervously knocking against the restrictive interior of the van.   
  
“Of course, there’s still music inside of me. I’m full of unplayed music and unwritten songs for a dead man and a band that is no longer. My soul is infested with the words I didn’t get to sing, with the lyrics in my binder that got lost in the car crash. My hands are tied to songs that were never played to the audience they deserved. My heart is torn apart by every single note we didn’t get to play. My shattered instruments I can replace, but my shattered self?” Patrick pauses, looks down at his hands. Pete stays quiet, a deafening, maddening silence that rings in Patrick’s ears.   
  
“Music, that’s something ugly, dark, and twisted, dreams I no longer get to dream, hopes I no longer have, lovers I no longer kiss. No more music. No more, ever.” Patrick turns his head away, keeps staring at the white landscape outside, glowing golden with the dawn settling on the horizon. He doesn’t look back to Pete, but when a warm hand gently rests on his, lacing their fingers together, Patrick doesn’t withdraw. He watches as the sun sets, draining one more day out of Pete’s too short lifespan. Patrick holds on tighter to the hand in his.   
  


Darkness has overtaken the world when they reach the motel.   
  
The motel doesn’t seem to have changed. Still an inconspicuous little building at the side of the highway, one of oh so many. Nothing special, unremarkable, it’s been doing this job for god knows how long so why would there be any need to change? Just anonymous shelter. Just a place meant to be temporary until the travelers can go somewhere else. Passing, drifting. Nothing is secure. Somehow, that makes Patrick equally sad and relaxed.   
  
The motel is full of dreams. Loved ones yet to be seen, cities and countries yet to reach; this motel is not the final destination of anyone’s travel.   
  
Not even for them.  
  
Just one further stop until New York. A small landmark in the road of death.   
  
A double bed, just like back then. Only thing missing are Andy and Joe whistling, and a few years of Patrick’s life.   


Pete is already sitting on the bed, and already shirtless; his aversion to being dressed seems to have stuck with him even in death. It’s strangely endearing.   
  
He watches as Patrick puts away his stuff, then heads for a shower.   
  
Showers, those were sacred back when the band was crammed into a van, and not always affluent enough to afford a night at a motel. Patrick recalls how happy he had been to first wash the grime of almost a week on the road off of him.   
  
Now he doesn’t feel particularly dirty, they’ve only been in the van for a few hours. He’s lived through much worse. Patrick still takes a shower, watches the water splash over the white tiles and down the drain, disappearing into a black void.   
  
Patrick comes back into the room with fresh underwear, only feeling slightly ridiculous. Pete has seen him naked before. Just yesterday, and all the half-forgotten days and nights in another lifetime. But today, Patrick doesn’t want something rushed and desperate. Three days is not a long time, and he wants to treasure every second. Map every inch of Pete’s body. Caress every little bit of him.   
  
The mattress dips when he sits next to Pete, slowly, almost shyly cupping Pete’s jaw in his hand. Pete leans into the touch, eyes closed, black lashes overshadowing his cheekbones. His wings move just slightly, feathers rustling almost inaudibly, and only now does Patrick realize he’s never seen them unfolded. They’ve remained squished between the backseats of chairs and benches, tucked into Patrick’s arms, always restrained. Suddenly, Patrick feels pity with the poor angel; Pete must’ve done this for him, hid his wings before Patrick’s disapproving looks, and Patrick feels silly for that. They’re a part of Pete now, undeniably, and Patrick is determined to love him as he is.   
  
“Can I touch?” Patrick asks, nodding his head towards the wings folded on Pete’s back. Pete nods, and Patrick reaches his hand for the white feathers peeking over the golden curve of his shoulder.  
  
Although the feathers feel soft, Pete’s wings are a sturdy construction. Patrick feels them move a little under his touch, which is weird, will always be weird, it will never be the old Pete anymore, never. Patrick takes a deep breath.   


“Open them up,” he mumbles, “you’ve kept them folded all day, and I want to see them – if that’s okay?”  
  
Pete smiles at him, amused and with just the slightest shadow of sadness. “Sure.”  
  
The wings unfold almost silently, feathers rustling just a little, the air draught caressing Patrick’s skin like the touch of a lover.   
  
Just like Pete himself, his wings aren’t very big, but they’re beautiful. Rows and rows of white feathers, each precisely fit into its place. Functional, yet pretty.   
  
Patrick touches them, hesitantly at first, but encouraged by Pete’s wide grin and his nod. Patrick slides behind him, hand ghosting over where the feathers sprout from Pete’s back, small, fuzzy down a whisper against his skin. Pete’s wings unfold to their full glory once more, before relaxing again. A deep sigh follows, turning into a purr when Patrick pets tan skin and white wings.   
  
“Feels good?” Patrick inquires, and Pete nods, eagerly. Patrick isn’t quite sure how angel anatomy works, but he guesses wings must be similar to an extra pair of limbs – and how terrible must it feel to keep those tucked close to your body at all times, never moving, always restrained? Guilt overcomes Patrick as he keeps petting the fluffy downs sprouting from Pete’s shoulder blades. He kisses a quiet apology on the small strip of golden skin between Pete’s neck and the white feathers, and he knows he’s forgiven when he feels the vibration of Pete’s laugh under lips.   
  
Pete turns around, and straddles Patrick’s lap. He slings his arms around Patrick’s shoulders, and his wings mirror the embrace; nothing but white in Patrick’s field of view. But that white is part of Pete, in all its pain and glory, and that makes it the most beautiful view there could ever be. He cups Pete’s chin again, pulls him in for a kiss that’s all red tongues and soft lips, all golden sweetness, all white light on a dark horizon, all Pete.   
  
A hand gently pushes him down, and Patrick lays back, Pete now over him, a blur of black and gold and white through translucent tears. They’re kissed away, soft lips against damp lashes; oh, no one else will ever be allowed to kiss Patrick like this. He feels raw and exposed, trembling hands holding on to Pete as if his promise was but a lie, as if he could vanish the second Patrick’s touch doesn’t confirm he’s real anymore.   


The kissing continues, and Patrick wonders if Pete has missed him like he has, if the afterlife allows for such longings. Has Pete thought about him? Wanted him? Missed to kiss him like this, missed his body, the shared warmth of life?   


The way Pete kisses him, the answer can only be yes.   


Pete trails down, lips brushing over Patrick’s neck, and every flicker of his tongue paints burning fire onto Patrick’s skin.   
  
It’s not the first time Patrick has been pressed into this very mattress, Pete on top of him. Last time they were here, Pete was alive, and the future seemed as bright as the white of angel Pete’s wings. They were young and greedy, desperate for the intimacy that can’t be had in a van and public spaces. Almost untouched for days spent in close proximity to each other without much release had left them both high-strung and desperate. The curse of being a horny teen meant Patrick blew his load half a minute into the blowjob, embarrassingly so. He’d apologized to a merely amused Pete, then jerked Pete off, and they had collapsed on the mattress together, sticky with cum and shaking from laughter about their failures.   
  
Yes, back then, Patrick remembers he had laughed; when was the last time he had done so since Pete’s death? He can’t remember.   
  
Yes, back then, it seemed funny, merely an amusing little hiccup, a juvenile experience in sex. Patrick had laughed, like the fool he was, believing there were yet so many days and nights to come, all to be spend with Pete, a thousand opportunities to make things right again.   
  
Now, his only chance to ever do it better is sitting on top of him, wings stretched out, resurrected corpse flooded with golden blood and a false sense of life. Patrick doesn’t feel like laughing anymore.  
  
But when Pete smiles, for the first time, Patrick doesn’t feel like crying either. Something warm floods his chest, golden sunlight, the gold in the curve of Pete’s smile, the gold in the glimmer of his eyes.   


A gentle kiss to Patrick’s stomach, tongue dipping into his navel which still makes Patrick squirm and giggle. Pete drags down his underwear with his teeth – still a showoff – carelessly throws it aside, before hit mouth lingers over Patrick’s cock, tongue darting out between his pretty lips, and Patrick groans in frustration.   
  
A grin lights Pete’s face. “We can do better than last time. Up for the challenge, Rick?” He pokes Patrick’s half-hard dick, causing Pete to groan again upon both the teasing touch and the terrible wordplay.   
  
“Go fuck yourself,” Patrick grumbles under his breath, fondness belying his words.   
  
Pete laughs, ugly and brash, but no less endeared then when he was alive.   
  
“I thought I could fuck you?” Pete prompts, fingers back on Patrick’s cock and this time, he’s not playing around. Deft fingers wrap around the shaft, a tight grip, slow pumps, just like Patrick loves it. He moans, bucks his hips in search for more, but Pete is waiting for an answer.   
  
“Yes,” Patrick gasps, how could there ever be another answer? “Please, Pete, I – wanna feel you…”  
  
Pete leans over, lips finding Patrick’s for a kiss and the silent repetition of his question.   
  
“I want,” Patrick says again, with nothing but desire in his voice.   
  
Pete gets up, rummages through Patrick’s bag, and comes back with a bottle of lube. Patrick can’t remember packing that, but wouldn’t put it above Pete – dead or not – to shove it in there last minute.   
  
More kissing once Pete is back between his legs, hand back on Patrick’s dick, stroking him into hardness while Patrick whimpers, body writhing against the sheets, feeling as touch-starved and in love as all those years ago. Pete licks a stripe over his throat, a flicker of sadness in his eyes that Patrick tries to ignore. It’s not important, because Pete trails down further, further, further, and Patrick is sure he actually sobs once he feels Pete’s mouth on his cock, hot and wet and just like he remembers it.   
  
This time, despite all his desperate longing for the man he loves so much, Patrick can hold back. Pete sucks him off with all the finesse he had back when he was alive, lips wrapped around his shaft, clever tongue sliding over Patrick’s dick, hand cupping his balls. Patrick whines, words lost in lust and white, burning arousal jolting through his body; slicked-up fingers rest between his cheeks, and Patrick spreads his legs a little wider.   
  
Pete’s fingers circle over his rim, teasing, testing. Patrick groans, bucks his hips impatiently; he’s waited long enough, and there’s not much time left. Pete gets the hint. His fingertips push past the initial resistance, breach the barriers of Patrick’s body, make him let out another almost-sob. Not because it hurts, but because relief and joy are too great a burden.   
  
As good as Pete’s mouth feels, Patrick still twists his hand into black hair, and motions Pete to stop. Tonight has to be perfect, they’ve come so far, Patrick doesn’t want to come too early and be sore and overstimulated.   
  
Pete sits up, wipes over his lips, oh so pretty, oh so kissable, oh, Patrick wants. He props himself up on his elbows, hissing a little when Pete’s fingers slide deeper into him. Pete leans forward, mouths meeting for a passionate kiss. Pete twists his fingers, in search of Patrick’s prostate, and when he finds it, Patrick has to break the kiss for a loud moan. It feels so fucking good, when has he last felt this good? Since Pete has been gone, no one has been intimate with him. No one will ever be allowed to.   


“I want you, Pete,” Patrick whispers, voice a little hoarse, but firm. “Take me. I’m all yours, always and forever.”

  
Patrick doesn’t know where these words come from; it doesn’t sound anything like him. Never would he have said such sappy sentimentalities back when Pete’s blood was red and Patrick’s heart wasn’t broken.   


Why is Patrick so sure he’s telling the truth?  


Maybe the accident has left his mind more messed up than he thought. Patrick can’t bring himself to care. 

  
There’s a knowing look on Pete’s face, the light in his eyes dulled by wisdom that has been paid with the death of a lover. He parts his lips, but all he has is a soft sigh when he withdraws his fingers, repeated when he lubes up his dick.   
  
“I want you too,” Pete whispers back, blunt head of his cock lined up with Patrick’s wet entrance. “But please, don’t say forever.”  
  
Patrick hisses, nails digging into Pete’s arm as he pushes in slowly. “Why not?”  
  
“Because only one of us has infinity ahead,” Pete says softly, brows furrowed in concentration as he bottoms out.   
  
Patrick shudders a little as he tries to adjust, tries to turn pain into well-known pleasure. Pete doesn’t move, just brushes tender kisses onto Patrick’s sweat soaked skin.  
  
“You’re not making sense,” Patrick mumbles, jaw clenched as he squirms, then wraps his legs around Pete’s hips. Pete just laughs a little, shifts his position just enough and finally, everything falls into place. Patrick breathes hard, moans encouragingly, but Pete stays still. All he does is splay his fingers over Patrick’s chest, melancholy etched into his face as his nails dig into pale flesh until small bright red flowers bloom under them.  
  
Pete’s hand remains pressed against Patrick’s rib cage, although Pete now looks away, amber eyes hidden under long, black lashes. His wings unfold, a sudden, unexpected gesture, looking almost instinctive. White feathers brighten Patrick’s field of view when Pete speaks up again. “Isn’t it weird how the short flicker of a lifetime seems so much harder than eternity?”  
  
Patrick doesn’t answer, although Pete’s words don’t really feel like a question. He’s not making sense, so why do these words sound so comforting yet frightfully familiar to Patrick?  
  
“Let’s not talk,” Patrick says instead, untouched cock aching for Pete’s touch, the snap of his hips, everything Pete can give him except sad phrases.   


Words are traded for kisses, desperate lips hungry for each other, tongues eager to explore well-known territory of a much-missed mouth. Pete starts moving, slow and deliberate, catches each of Patrick’s moans between pearly teeth and red-swollen lips. Patrick wraps his arms around him, feels hot skin and feathers under his embrace. It’s not Pete, and yet it is.   
  
Pete’s wings jerk, about to fold up again, but Patrick shakes his head, buries his hands into soft down sprouting from Pete’s shoulder blades. The wings unfold again, and then Patrick finds himself embraced by two tattooed arms and bright white feathers. It’s a piece of heaven, it’s Pete, everything Patrick had ever asked from life.   
  
They roll their hips in sync, waves of pleasure, an ocean of lust and want, soon to be dried up when Pete’s time runs out again.   
  
A hard cock, tender hands, and soft feathers.   
  
Pete pushes deep inside of him, hitting Patrick’s prostate with each thrust, sparks liquid fire that runs through Patrick’s veins, makes him moan higher and higher as he writhes against the sheets, bucking his hips in an attempt to fuck harder into the familiar hand on his aching dick.    
  
When he comes, Patrick is sure he can see stars behind his eyelids, as golden as Pete.   
  
Pete cries out, fills him up with liquid heat as he rides out his orgasm, collapsing on top of Patrick as a sweaty, satisfied mess. Two tattooed arms and the soft feathers of Pete’s wings keep Patrick grounded in reality, and he clings closer to Pete, wishing the moment could last forever.   
  
It doesn’t, of course; Pete shifts, softening cock sliding out of Patrick as he sits up, a chuckle brightening his fuck-flushed face. “Better than last time, hm?” Pete teases while stretching his limbs, before he gets up and heads for the bathroom.   
  
Patrick contemplates those words, and something warm bloom in his chest right under the scarlet half-moon shadow of Pete’s fingernails.   
  
“It’s always great with you,” Patrick mumbles when Pete comes back, “well, even if it’s not great, it’s – it’s still you, Pete. That’s what makes it amazing. I don’t need perfection. Just you.”  
  
Pete laughs, then proceeds to clean up both of them. When he’s done, Pete lays down on Patrick’s chest, his wings unfolding again to embrace them both in whiteness.   


 

“Why now?” Patrick whispers into the silence. “Why did you come now, Pete? All these years… Why didn’t you visit me sooner?”  
  
Pete shakes his head, brown eyes peeking up to meet Patrick’s. “I couldn’t.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
Pete just shakes his head again, a gloomy smile painting sadness over his pretty face. “You’ll understand eventually, Patrick.”  
  
All Patrick can do is trust Pete’s words. He wants to understand, he really, really wants to, but there’s a somber edge to Pete’s words that make Patrick shudder a little.    


“This feels like a dream,” Patrick mumbles as he strokes over Pete’s hair, down to the nape of his neck until he feels fluffy plumage under his fingertips.    
  
Pete laughs a little, the vibration of it traveling through Patrick’s own body. “A good one, I hope?”   
  
“Yes,” Patrick whispers, “a good one. The best dream I’ve ever had.”  
  
“Stop it,” Pete whispers back, his words a hushed breath over Patrick’s neck, the feathers of his wings a soft tingle on Patrick’s sweaty skin. “You’re making me sad.”  
  
“It’s a lie anyway,” Patrick says with a giggle that’s halfway between laughing and crying. “You – no, us, together, that was the best dream.”  
  
“You and me, us – that wasn’t a dream, silly,” Pete scolds him, “and neither is this.”  
  
Pete leans up, and their lips meet for a goodnight kiss that tastes like old love and new, scary beginnings. Tomorrow will be their last day together. Patrick doesn’t know if he’s ready.  
  
Patrick closes his eyes, and the darkness behind his closed lids drags him down into the dreamless realms of unconsciousness.   
  


He wakes up with Pete wrapped around him, a mess of limbs and wings. Sunlight tickles Patrick’s nose, a stray ray of the new day. Pete must’ve opened the curtains.   
  
“Time to get up, Rickster,” Pete whispers into his ear, “you and I, we’re taking on New York.”   
  
They get dressed, and Patrick watches as Pete inspects his reflection in the small bathroom mirror. He flaps his wings, but the bathroom doesn’t have enough space to let him unfold them, and the mirror is too tiny to show more of them than a flash of white peeking over his shoulder. “Wonder why I didn’t get a halo,” Pete grumbles absent-mindedly as he fixes his hair.   
  
“You don’t need a halo,” Patrick answers fondly, “your smile is golden enough.”  
  
The words surprise them both, Patrick has never been one to make such overly candid declarations of love and adoration. Patrick shakes his head; maybe it’s because he needs to make up for all the nice things he never said in a too short span of time?  
  
It doesn’t matter. The beaming smile on Pete’s face is both confirmation and reward, and Patrick feels ready to face the new, unexplored areas of the world with his angel.   


Snow still paints the world white, glistening in the light of a new day.  


Anxiety claws at Patrick’s chest the closer they come to the sight of the accident. He reaches for Pete’s hand, warm and reassuring under his touch. His head aches, and his eyes burn, and for a moment, reality seems to collapse, crash and shatter into a million broken fragments just like back when –   
  
“We’re here,” Pete’s voice pieces everything back together, and Patrick shrugs off the last hint of nightmare. There’s no broken van, no destroyed dreams, no dying Pete.   
  
It’s just an unremarkable speck of white and brown, trees sprouting from the frozen ground. Nature has reclaimed her territory, time has healed the place from its dread. Just another anonymous roadside.   
  
“It looks different, doesn’t it?” Pete asks solemnly. “Nothing like the photos.”  
  
“The photos?” Patrick is confused for a moment. He can’t recall seeing any pictures of the crash site. Then again, why would he ever want to see those? Someone probably brought them up at some point, but no matter how clouded his mind, Patrick is sure he would never take a look at them anyway.   
  
Pete must’ve figured that out, too, given the slight guilt in his face. “It’s best if you haven’t seen them,” he whispers as he takes Patrick’s hand. “It’s best if you don’t know…”   
  
“One day, maybe,” Patrick whispers back. “I’ll be strong enough one day.”  
  
Pete nods, even though he seems as unsure of that as Patrick feels.   


There’s nothing to see here, yet somehow, the absence of anything worthwhile makes it all the more precious. Patrick doesn’t look back when they head towards the van, and when the former crash site blends back into the environment, he feels like a huge weight has been lifted off his shoulders.  
  
“What else have you seen that I haven’t?” Patrick asks when they’re back in the van. “Does being dead make you omniscient?”   
  
“It doesn’t, idiot.” Pete sighs, and his wings jerk a little, but there’s no room for them to move. “It’s… It’s nothing like that.”  
  
Patrick squirms in his seat “Did you watch me? From the afterlife? You’re an angel, isn’t that what you do?”   
  
“I’ve never lost sight of you,” Pete answers ominously, “but… Not in that way. Being dead is so different from what you think it is, Patrick, but – those aren’t things I can tell you. You’ll have to find out for yourself.”  
  
There’s something dark and deep in his voice that sends a cold shiver through Patrick’s body. “Even you don’t have the words for it?”   
  
Pete looks at him, thoughtfully, knowing, lips curled into a sad smile. “I have, but I am not allowed to share them yet.”  
  
“Being dead didn’t stop you from being a vague and wannabe-deep asshole,” Patrick mutters with no bite behind it. Pete laughs, ugly and adorable, gold against the deafening white silence.   


“We’re not gonna crash again, are we?” Patrick asks, a failed attempt at humor.  
  
“We’re not,” Pete reassures him, and there’s nothing to do but to believe him.   
  
“It wouldn’t matter much anyway.” Patrick shrugs as he thinks back to his lonely apartment and the life he leads. Wonders when he has last talked to a human soul that wasn’t trapped in the body of an angel. When…? Oh, Patrick can’t remember. His head hurts again. Best not to think too hard. “No one will miss me.”  
  
“That’s not true.” Pete glares at him, with fire in his eyes and ire etched into his face. He stretches his wings, a flash of soft white feathers; the air draught whispers over Patrick’s skin like a ghost. “That’s not true, Patrick,” he repeats, and his hand fists into Patrick’s shirt, draws him closer until their faces almost touch. Pure anger radiates from Pete, and it’s the first time Patrick has seen the angel be furious. “Don’t you ever dare say that again.”  
  
Patrick squirms in his seat. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. Maybe that was a little insensitive, and definitely not the best choice of words for talking to a dead person.   
  
“You don’t need to be sorry,” Pete says quietly, but the anger vanishes from his expression. “You just need to see the wrongness in what you just said.”

  
Patrick nods. Still a few hours until they reach New York, plenty of time to think about what Pete just said. Finally, Pete starts the engine, and the van drives on, to new roads and new old dreams, and Patrick feels lighthearted and strangely delighted. The radio stays off, but deep down, Patrick feels a new melody sprouting inside of him, like a delicate flower finally pushing through the rubble of a collapsed building. Like a pair of wings sprouting from his own back. With a small smile tugging at his lips, Patrick rests his head against Pete’s shoulders, fingers curling into Pete’s arm, and white feathers embrace them both as they head towards the horizon.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Please consider leaving a comment, I'd love to hear your thoughts!~
> 
> Find me [here](https://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com) on tumblr, I do more art there!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are folks, the end already! 
> 
> Thanks to Snitches for beta reading and just being awesome in general!
> 
> As always, all artwork is done by me.

 

 

 

 

 

When Patrick opens his eyes, all he sees is white.

 

He sits up with a groan, disoriented and confused. His neck is stiff, muscles sore, and his head hurts. For a moment, the world doesn’t make sense, and panic threatens to take over.

A golden hand on his brings a stop to the chaos. Patrick blinks, and the white breaks up into snow and the city skyline, into the gold of Pete’s smile as he proudly announces: “Almost, there, Rickster.”

“There?” Patrick repeats slowly, tongue heavy and thoughts still clouded from a too-deep sleep. _There_ – that can only be one place. The last place on their journey, the final destination for him and Pete. “New York,” Patrick whispers, fingers curling around Pete’s hand, “we made it.”

“We made it,” Pete confirms, warm fingers stroking over cold, pale skin.

The beginning, and the end.

 

Patrick watches the streets with glee as Pete navigates them through the chaotic traffic. New York – oh, they made it. Years too late and the price for entry way too high, absent much-missed friends, but they made it. They clawed what little they could get out of life and death’s tight grip.

Pete stops in front of a skyscraper, and only when they get out of the car does Patrick notice where they are. A grand entry, flags waving, and employees dressed in formal attire.

“What the hell!?” Patrick whispers under his breath, “Pete, this is the Four Seasons – are you kidding me? I can’t afford this! They won’t even let people like us in!”

“We’re all set,” is all Pete answers as he nonchalantly throws a valet the car keys. A professional smile follows, mirrored by the colleagues at the door. No one stares at them, no one respectfully reminds them that two young adults with ratty jeans and a pair of wings aren’t the right sort of guests for this establishment. Patrick is intimidated as he stumbles behind Pete, who seems to have no such worries as he barges through the foyer.

 

The receptionist has nothing but the friendly, polite smile that business requires. No sneer, no questions, no comments on the two guests wildly out of place. Instead, they’re simply handed a key card, offered another friendly smile and some complementary polite phrases as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. No one, neither the guests nor the employees, notices them.

Patrick looks at the keycard. “Wait. Pete, I – I didn’t pay for this,” he says dumbfounded, “we can’t just fucking waltz in here – you might not face consequences, but I’ll be in debt or prison for the foreseeable future if they catch us!”

“Catch us doing what?” Pete asks innocently as he heads for the elevator. Patrick can’t do anything but follow, worn-out sneakers squeaking on the marble floor as he sprints after Pete. “Told ya, we’re fine,” Pete continues as the elevator door shuts behind them.

“This is all too easy.” Patrick stares the key card again while the elevator drives them up. “Are you playing tricks on me, Pete? Is this some sort of angel magic or whatever? Is that how you got us in?”

“Nope,” Pete shakes his head, laughs a little under his breath. “That’s not how it works, but… You’ll understand soon enough. Stop worrying and just fucking enjoy it.”

 

The rooms is perfect, exquisite, and expensive. All white and ivory, a king-sized bed, and an entire wall taken up by windows. The view is breathtaking. New York stretches before their window, a magical sight just like out of a picture-perfect postcard. Patrick walks over, hand resting against the cold glass as he takes it all in.

Pete steps next to him, glances down to the city.

“The band… We would have made it, Patrick. We would’ve been the biggest fucking rock stars ever, and then we would’ve trashed this room completely! At least one night here together… They basically _owe_ this to us.”

 

Patrick nods mechanically, he’s not in the mood to think over missed opportunities.

 

Pete must’ve caught that, because he takes Patrick’s hand away from the glass, and grins. “Let’s go do something fun.”

 

Pete’s definition of fun is the Wollman rink in Central Park.

 

The ice rink is so white. Patrick doesn’t like ice, and he doesn’t like white. But he sees people laughing, having fun, enjoying life without paying mind to the deadly element beneath their feet. Maybe, this frozen water isn’t tainted with fear or sadness. There could be something else encapsulated in it.

Patrick rents them two pair of skates, their white matching the snow and the feathers on Pete’s back. No one pays attention to them as they stumble onto the ice, a little unsure on their feet. Patrick clings to the rink, tries his best to gather himself and keep his balance. When was the last time he went out ice skating? It must have been with Pete, on the frozen shores of Lake Michigan. Yes, he remembers, years and years ago, in another lifetime. With hands held and words as sharp as the blades beneath his feet, mumbled into his scarf, when Patrick had been too shy for love confessions, too sure that there was always more time ahead to exchange passionate declarations of admiration. He dearly hopes that Pete saw through his teen act, that he knew how much Patrick truly loved him.

 

The way he holds Patrick close, the way he smiles, Pete must’ve always known.

 

Together, they slide over the ice, slowly at first, miraculously not bumping into anyone else. Pete unfolds his wings, keeps them open in an attempt to gain better balance. White and white and white, glittering snow and soft feathers, it’s not such a bad color after all. Patrick smiles as he sinks against Pete’s chest, arms slung around him.

“You’re wonderful, Pete. I love you so much,” Patrick whispers, because today, there’s no time for anything but the undisguised truth. “I’m sorry if I didn’t tell you enough. I’m sorry that I’ll never get to tell you again after today. But please, you won’t forget that, ever, right?”

Sadness sparkles in Pete’s laugh, his breath fogging in the cold winter air. “Never,” he answers, “never, Patrick, I promise.”

Pete takes his hand, and despite the years he’s been absent from the ice, muscle memory takes over. Patrick glides over the ice with ease, gaining more confidence as he gains speed.

It ends as it must, with the two of them eventually tumbling down, Pete dragged down by Patrick’s hand which he refuses to let go. The world stops for a second, as panic and unpleasant memories all explode in Patrick’s brain in a split second; he opens his mouth, ready to scream, ready to shout and plead for life as he squeezes his eyes shut.

The expected pain never comes. There’s just a dull thud, and the warmth of Pete’s body protecting Patrick’s from the fall, the embrace of his wings mirroring the grip of his arms, softening the impact for the both of them. When he opens his eyes again, their white feathers greet Patrick’s eyes with a reassurance that he’s never experienced ever since the accident.

“I got you,” Pete whispers, voice thin and barely audible over the indistinct chatter of the people around them.

Relief floods Patrick, as a nervous giggle bubbles up in him. The momentary panic has vanished completely. “I’m okay,” Patrick says cheerfully, but the words don’t seem to reach Pete. He hugs Patrick closer, shaking, head rested against Patrick’s neck. “Pete, I’m okay,” Patrick repeats surprised, nothing has happened, it was just a small fall, why is Pete being so dramatic? “You can let go of me. We need to get up, the ice is freezing my butt off.”

Something warm drips down on Patrick’s throat, and the worries return. “Pete, you okay?” Patrick wriggles himself out of Pete’s tight embrace, concerned with the well-being of his loved one – what irony, given that his already deceased angel is out of mortal danger forever. “Are you hurt?” Patrick asks again, cupping Pete’s chin in his hand. Gold is smeared over Pete’s cheek, but whatever wound may have caused it has already vanished. Pete still looks shocked, wide eyes staring at Patrick with a fear that Patrick doesn’t understand. Unsure of what to do, Patrick wipes the last shimmery traces away, kisses the tip of Pete’s nose. It feels unusually cold, they’ve been out for too long.

Before Patrick can voice concern, Pete seems to have overcome the shock, and draws him in for a deep, passionate kiss. Cold water soaks through Patrick’s pants, but all he can feel is Pete’s hot tongue and wet lips, warm hands caressing his face, with an urgency that seems out of place.

Patrick breaks the kiss, rests their foreheads together and laughs a little. “We just tripped on the ice. No big deal. I may not have your angel healing powers, but I’m fine. I won’t break that easily.” He gets up, holds a hand out to Pete. “But I’m _freezing_ , and so are you. Let’s go warm up somewhere.”

Pete takes his hand, and Patrick pulls him up. He’s not sure if the angel’s body is even affected by the cold, he certainly can’t die of hypothermia anymore, but that doesn’t mean Pete can’t feel the cold.

 

He’s shivering as much as Patrick, although Pete is back to smiling. The little hiccup on the ice is forgotten, the sudden outburst of emotion probably just a strange overreaction. Huddled close, they carefully head towards the exit of the ice rink, soon trading white ice for the gray asphalt of the city under their feet.

 

With impeccable precision, Pete finds a nearby bakery, warm and inviting and offering the perfect cozy spot for two freezing lovers. As if he knew what Patrick craved the most right now. The crowd of the city grants anonymity as they cuddle together, cups of coffees warming up their hands as their bodies warm each other. Just like everywhere else, no one pays attention to the two young men, New York is too busy with its own life to notice the two souls that don’t belong here.

 

Afterwards, they walk through the city again, fingers laced together. The sky is dark, or so Patrick thinks, because the city is illuminated, glowing ads and bright screens, not a speck of darkness left on the main streets.

 

Time Square is a cascade of colors, an explosion of light, an eruption of moving images, blurry lights, all towering over a moving crowd, the noise of the traffic, a thousand languages weaving together as thousands of people make their way through the streets. It’s overwhelming beauty, and Patrick has to close his eyes from the sensory overload.

“Our faces should have been here, don’t you think – hey,” he hears Pete whisper, and then he feels Pete slinging his arms around his waist, “you okay?”

“’s just so much,” Patrick mumbles. His head hurts. Everything is too bright, too loud, the world is screaming at him in every way possible. Pete kisses him gently, and when Patrick opens his eyes again, all he sees is golden eyes and white wings embracing them, creating their own private bubble of safety in this strange, strange world.

“We’re here, and I’m so, so happy, but not because we’re in New York.” Patrick smiles, and for once, the tears that threaten to fall aren’t born from pure sadness. “I don’t care about goddamn New York. I didn’t want to go here for the city – I wanted to be here with _you_. It didn’t matter where we ended up, all I wanted was _you_ to be there.”

Pete laughs, draws Patrick in for another kiss. “New York sucks,” Pete says with a wide grin, “the city can eat my ass. Only reason I can stand it here is because we’re here together. Let’s get back to the hotel and pray we don’t get eaten by those horrible rat-abominations on our way back.”

“I’m not sure that’s something that really happens,” Patrick argues with a chuckle as Pete folds his wings and takes his hand again. Patrick has no sense of direction as they walk through the crowded streets, he trusts Pete. Being an angel comes with its perks, but Pete always seems to know his way anyway, alive or not, so Patrick just follows.

 

Everything blurs together, crowds and noises and the lights from all the different shops, billboards, and every other possible source; but out of the blue, on an anonymous street in this too-big city, something catches Patrick’s eye. The shop is tucked away between two large storefronts, itself small and not even really discernable from every other building. Yet Patrick can’t help but stop dead in his tracks, causing Pete to stop as well.

It’s a record shop, all bright neon letters and the promise of vintage treasures inside. It’s not too big, not too overcrowded, no loud music or overbearing store clerks bothering anyone. Patrick peeks inside, sees rows and rows and rows of meticulously labeled vinyl, every genre, every possible letter of the alphabet, the promise of musical pearls just waiting to be discovered.

“Looks perfect, doesn’t it,” Pete comments with a knowing grin, all false innocence and mischievous glimmer in his eyes. “I’m sure we can find something nice in there…”

“No…” Patrick shakes his head weakly. No, no more music, right? The manifestation of all his dead dreams is wrapped up in the angel incarnation standing right next to him, and Patrick can’t. He just can’t. It’s giving up on – on what, exactly? Plans he knows can never be followed through, nightmares he gets to dream when sleep catches up, but also, a tiny shred of warm denial, of hurtful but oh so comforting delusion. The moment he accepts that the world can move on, that there’s still joy and happiness that one of them can never get to experience, that he lets go of the sadness – it feels like betrayal.

 

“You can chastise yourself all you want,” Pete whispers, “it won’t undo death, Patrick. Seeing you hurt and unhappy – you think that could be something I’d ever want?”

“How can I allow myself happiness after everything that’s happened?!” Patrick yanks his hand out of Pete’s, stares at him with anger. “If I move on, I – I’ll let go of another piece of you, Pete, and – and I’m so fucking scared of losing more of you!”

“You’ll never lose me, silly.” The words seem to surprise Pete a little himself, yet they’re said with confidence. “I’ll always be with you.”

“No,” Patrick shakes his head, coldness spreading in his chest, “no, you’re not, because you goddamn _left_ , and when you did, you took a part of me with you.”

Pete isn’t that easily discouraged. Death must have made him a lot more patient that his living counterpart. “Well, then let me give it back.” He reaches for Patrick’s hand again, and it would be so easy to reject, to let go again, to stomp his feet and relish in refusal. But this is their last day together. Time is running out, each second a wasted opportunity as Patrick weighs his options. Be a stubborn asshole and find comfort in the well-worn blanket of well-known sadness, or go take a step with Pete towards new pain but also, maybe, new-found freedom and happiness.

 

Patrick takes a deep breath, and despite the raging tempest in his chest, he takes a step forward.

 

It’s warm inside the store, jazz music is playing softly in the background, the few other customers too engrossed in their own shopping to notice them. Rows and rows of possibilities, and Patrick feels overwhelmed. Where to go? What should he try? He longs for something comforting, familiar, something known.

Pete lingers around, hand skipping over the vinyl while he browses, but deep down, Patrick knows this must be his own decision to make. Pete is here as support, not as a permanent crutch to fall back on when Patrick doesn’t dare to get out of his comfort zone. And that lesson learned will stay with him longer than the ephemeral angel, a gift greater than anything else – one step closer to closure, Patrick can feel it.

 

With a sigh, Patrick leans against the shelf. His head is spinning, and he’s trembling. This is all too much. Just as he turns his head away, a certain album cover catches his eye. It stands out clearly among the blurred, overwhelming mess, like a shining beacon of hope. On impulse, Patrick leans over, runs his fingers over the smooth shiny cover depicting a red-haired man basking in a heavenly golden glow.

 

 _Space Oddity_. He’s not sure why it’s this one in particular that draws him in, but Patrick isn’t going to question it. It’s been so long since he longed to hear any sort of music, so this irrational desire comes at just the right time.

 

Always a favorite, always an idol, what better could there be than listening to a David Bowie song with the other man forever in Patrick’s heart?

Before he knows it, Pete is at his side, leaning over his shoulder. “Found something you like, Trickster?”

“I want this one,” Patrick whispers breathlessly.

Pete reaches out for it, hand brushing over Patrick’s. “We’ll take it then.”

 

 

 

The vinyl is a pleasant weight tucked under Patrick’s arm. When has he last bought one for himself? Patrick can’t remember. When has he last listened to – oh, yes, that’s right. A record player will be needed next, since he doubts the hotel room has one. Patrick drags Pete over to the ones on display, selects a transportable yet high—quality record player that he’s never had the courage to buy given the poverty that music has usually left his bank account in. Today, that doesn’t matter.

 

Out on the streets again, the new purchases neatly stored in bags with the shop’s label, Patrick feels giddy with excitement. The melody that started to sprout in the rubble of his broken heart grows, first delicate buds that are just waiting to bloom into new life. The melody banned on vinyl is just waiting to be listened to as well, timeless comfort and beauty, to be shared with Pete… Oh, Patrick can’t believe it. The world looks brighter now, and not because of the gleaming neon lights bursting through the darkness of the night.

 

Back at the hotel, Patrick unpacks his new belongings, carefully slides the vinyl out of the sheet. Pete sits next to him, wings flapping in uncertainty as he watches Patrick without intervening.

His hands are trembling just a little as he puts the needle into place, but a moment later, music floods the room. Beautiful, so beautiful, how could Patrick ever allow himself to forget such things exist? How could death ever dare to part Pete all too soon from a world that holds such treasures, rays of sunshine pressed onto a disk, powerful emotions and happiness packed into each note?

Pete hums along tunelessly, folds his wings, and drags Patrick up. “Let’s dance,” he proposes with a grin as his hands sling around Patrick’s waist.

Neither of them can actually dance, and the song isn’t made for romance, isn’t meant as background music for upbeat fun or a sappy moment between lovers. And yet, despite their clumsy movements, despite the sadness carried in Bowie’s beautifully sung words, Patrick couldn’t imagine a more perfect moment.

The skyline of the city glitters in the background as they shuffle through the room, accompanied by the music that Patrick realizes he has missed so, so much. From the large windows taking up the entire wall, they oversee New York laying at their feet, the world belonging to them, even if just for a moment. Patrick has no eyes for it, pays no attention to the glimmer of the city, the lights of the street, the monuments proudly shining in the night. The world is already in his arms in the form of Pete and that’s everything he truly needs. Fame and fortune and every ounce of gold in the world can’t compensate for the precious beaming smile on Pete’s face, no sight on this earth can be as beautiful as the one of the man he loves.

 

Time stands still as he and Pete kiss; the world holds its breath and stops spinning so that Patrick can memorize each and every precious second.

 

The music has stopped when the flow of reality picks up again. Patrick lets go of Pete, puts the needle back for another round of music, then drags Pete in for another round of dancing. Neither the luxurious surroundings nor the big city outside matter; they could be at the shitty motel at the roadside or the gutter, all that’s important is that when Patrick looks at Pete, he can see the stars.

When the music stops again, Patrick sets the needle back one more time. As nostalgic as vinyl might be, they are a bother. Bowie sings again, and Patrick finds himself in bed with Pete, lips pressed together, bodies rutting against each other, clothes discarded to the floor.

Pete is on his back, white wings framed by white satin sheets. A beautiful view, but Patrick winces at the thought of the wings trapped underneath Pete’s body any longer. He drags him up to sit on his heels, shakes his head. “Let’s find a position that doesn’t squish your extra limbs,” Patrick says with a small smile, making Pete laugh. He unfolds his wings again, show-off that he is, gorgeous white rows of feathers that frame his naked body perfectly.

 

“So much better…” Pete sighs, wings stretching to their full size, before relaxing. “They look so pretty, but they’re not very practical.”

 

“Sorry,” Patrick mumbles as he traces over Pete’s back, over the soft down and strong feathers sprouting from Pete’s shoulder blades. “I didn’t realize… You could’ve said something.”

Pete shrugs, his wings mimicking his movements. “Took you a while to get to like them.”

“It wasn’t the wings I disliked,” Patrick admits quietly, “it was the fact that they confirmed death.”

 

For a while, silence lingers between them, filled with the last beats of the music, before Patrick speaks up again: “Pete… How long…?”

The unfinished question hangs between them like another death sentence, the guillotine that will separate them once more. “I vanish when the sun rises,” Pete answers eventually, head hung low, shoulders slumped forward. His wings go limp, feathers rustling under Patrick’s touch.

A glimpse outside the window font reveals nothing but darkness; dawn won’t come for a while, night’s reign will last for a few more hours. It’s counted time nonetheless, each second a treasured, irreplaceable opal, to be lost and melted away once sun brings light back into this dark world.

 

“You came to offer closure, but…” Patrick bites his lip, fingers twisted into the white down of Pete’s wings. “How can I truly know we got there? I don’t want to send you back into the void with nothing gained.”

“Trust me, you’ll know.” There’s sadness in Pete’s voice, but he sounds certain. “It’s no use to worry about it, Patrick. But believe me, it’s – you’ll just know, okay?”

“Asshole,” Patrick grumbles fondly as he buries his head in the plumage on Pete’s back, “you’re supposed to help me, can’t you be less cryptic?”

“I’m not cryptic,” Pete answers, the same sadness in his voice as before. “It’s _you_ who can’t see things clearly.”

Patrick groans in frustration, cheek pressed against soft feathers, arms slung around Pete’s waist. “Again, not helping.”

 

Pete chuckles, the vibration of his laugh traveling through Patrick’s own chest, sparking warmth and desire. If words aren’t helping, maybe something else is needed. Pete turns his head, and their lips meet for a sweet kiss. The man of his dreams, naked in Patrick’s arms one last time, no, Patrick isn’t going to let that go to waste with nonsensical talking.

The kiss turns dirtier, and Patrick’s hand slides over Pete’s chest, caressing his nipples, trailing down the line of dark hair over his stomach. Pete mewls, grinds closer to Patrick, the swell of his ass tentatively rubbing against Patrick’s growing hard-on.

 

“Take me,” Pete utters breathlessly, desire and desperation now replacing the former sadness. “Take me, let me be yours one last time, Patrick.”

 

“No.” Patrick splays his hand over Pete’s groin, right over the tattoo he knows is there blindly. “You can leave, just like your once living counterpart did, but… Part of you will always be mine.”

Pete stills, then he laughs again, ugly and endearing, gold ringing in the brash sound. “That sounds beautiful,” he says softly, head now tipped back, strands of black hair tickling Patrick’s neck. “You’re clever, aren’t you? Even an angel like me can learn from you.”

“I don’t know about forever or eternity, Heaven, Hell, or Limbo,” Patrick whispers, “but what I _do_ know is that what we had, our love, our life, us – no one can take that away from us. Neither life, nor death. Never.”

 

Pete takes Patrick’s hand away from his tattoo, brings it up to his lips, kissing each knuckle with care, as if to memorize their brush against his lips. “You’re right,” he takes Patrick’s other hand, “you’re right,” a kiss to the first knuckle, “no one,” another kiss, “no one and nothing can take this from us.”

 

With these words, a huge weight seems to have lifted from Patrick’s shoulders; maybe, both their shoulders.

 

It’s white grief and golden hope; life can’t be perfect, but maybe, the best can be made of it despite all obstacles.

Such thoughts are discarded by Pete’s low moan, reminding Patrick of the current reality in which Pete is alive and breathing, heart beating, pumping golden blood through his veins and his cock, hard already under Patrick’s fingertips. Want, want, _want_ replaces everything else in Patrick’s mind, his own erection pressed against the tempting curve of Pete’s back.

Tan, tattooed skin and white, white feathers, a hard cock in his hand and a soft moan in his ears, everything Patrick could wish for. He tugs at Pete’s earlobe with his teeth, licks a stripe over his throat before his teeth bite into the curve of Pete’s neck, enough to elicit a groan as a bruise blooms under Patrick’s mouth, withered away already by the time Patrick’s tongue works its way down Pete’s spine. The disadvantage of Pete’s supernatural healing, Patrick figures.

Pete understands, lowers himself on all fours, head turned to Patrick. “Check the drawer,” Pete says, nodding towards it. Patrick opens it, and finds an assortment of grooming kits, expensive looking body hygiene products with the label of the Four Seasons, and a small, discreetly labeled bottle of lube.

“Unbelievable,” Patrick mumbles under his breath as he grabs it, then turns to Pete again.

Pete just grins. “We are in a fancy, very exclusive hotel, after all. They’re prepared for everything. The reception probably has high-class hookers on speed dial.”

“Don’t need any of those.” Patrick laughs, lighthearted and teary-eyed, his hands trailing over Pete’s thighs, over his ass, up to the terrible tattoo on his lower back. “Just need you, Pete.”

In response, Pete arches his back, tries to fold his wings, only to discover that despite their small size, they’re still big enough to be bothersome in this position. He grumbles in frustration, unfolds them again, the air draught kissing Patrick’s skin.

 

Patrick leans forward, one hand ruffling through the white down. “Truly a nuisance,” he mumbles, no bite behind his words, as he kisses over the scarred lines of the tattoo beneath the soft feathers. Pete’s wings jerk in disapproval, their owner just letting out an amused chuckle.

Wet tongue trailing down heated skin, the taste of sweat and Pete on its tip. Patrick’s hands grip into Pete’s cheeks, firm enough to make him take a sharp breath, turning into a whimper when Patrick spreads him open, ending with a high-pitched moan when the teasing flicker of his tongue gives a preview of what’s about to come.

Encouraged by Pete’s reaction, Patrick gets bolder, tongue pressing against puckered skin, tasting salty sweat and the musky scent of man. Two spit-slick thumbs sink into Pete’s entrance, a little rushed and rough, yet no less appreciated. Feathers flicker over Patrick’s head, Pete’s wings trembling, like the rest of his body. Patrick feels him loosen up under his tongue, feels how the initial resistance melts away into a demand for more.

Patrick sits up and reaches for the lube. He pours it over his hand blindly, not caring that he’s staining the expensive sheets. He slides his fingers back into Pete, who moans softly in approval as he rocks back against Patrick’s hand, lets out a sudden scream when Patrick pushes in further and finds his prostate. The golden curve of his back stands in beautiful contrast to the ivory sheets and white feathers, an exquisite piece of artwork only to be admired by Patrick and Patrick alone. He’s so glad that the universe granted him this sight one more time.

 

“Enough,” he hears Pete pant, “c’mon, fuck me. I’m ready – I want to feel you, Patrick…”

 

More lube poured over his hand and the sheets, then Patrick slicks up his cock. Pete watches, lowered to his elbows now and peeking over his shoulder, although his wings must be obstructing the view. Patrick lines up with his wet entrance, slides in slowly; he watches greedily as his cock enters Pete’s body, how his hole stretches tight around the head, the shaft, how Pete’s thighs are shaking once Patrick is buried in him to the hilt.

White feathers brush against Patrick’s belly like tender, shy touches. Pete is breathing hard, translucent pearls of sweat on his skin, each inch of his body hot as fire under Patrick’s fingertips. He leans forward, slings an arm around Pete’s heaving chest, and pulls him up. Pressed closely together, they still for a moment; golden flesh and white feathers flush against Patrick, Pete’s wings unfolding into a comfortable position. Then, Pete rolls his hips, pushes back against Patrick’s cock, a deep growl escaping from the back of his throat. Patrick rests his head against Pete’s neck, wraps his hand around Pete’s aching length. But he lets Pete experiment with the position, strokes Pete’s cock in the rhythm of his hips, lets Pete fuck himself on his dick until Pete’s hands digging into his thighs urge Patrick to move.

 

Each thrust into Pete’s tight heat is a maddening pleasure. Each fervent kiss pressed to Pete’s skin is tasting Heaven. Each little sound Pete makes is a sumptuous symphony unlike any other. Each memory pried away from the river of time is theirs and theirs alone.

 

The voluptuous delight is too much to take. It doesn’t take long until Patrick pulls Pete closer, closer, closer, dick buried deep inside of him as Patrick comes. A cascade of white and gold erupts behind his eyelids as he spills into Pete, his orgasm overwhelming and all-consuming, all passionate pleasure and heartthrob, all love for Pete.

 

After a while, the afterglow wears off enough that Patrick can catch his breath, and focus on the still-hard cock of Pete in his hand again. His own softening dick slides out of Pete, leaving him with a trail on cum running down his thigh.

Disregarding any concerns about the wings, Patrick turns him around, presses Pete back-first into the mattress. Pete writhes against the sheets, cock blood-red and leaking, eyes pleading for release. Patrick leans over him, tongue flickering against the head, licking away the trail of pre-cum.

“Patrick,” he hears Pete say, voice small under the weight of desire and death. Patrick gets it, stops with the teasing. He licks his lips, eyes fixed on Pete as he takes his dick into his mouth, slides his lips over aching flesh, tasting salt and bitterness.

Pete continues to whisper Patrick’s name under his breath, and really, that’s all he needs to say. Each stuttered iteration of his name carries more meaning and more beauty than any carefully constructed poetry.

More bitterness pours into Patrick’s mouth when Pete comes, and it tastes like first love and first times all over again, hushed giggles, the thrill of a dark corner backstage in a shitty club, the comfort of their own bed in a tiny shared apartment. The river of time can’t wash away these eternal gems.

 

Pete exhales deeply, then holds out his arm. Patrick cuddles up to him, arm slung over his stomach, head placed on Pete’s chest.

 

It’s at this moment that Patrick finally notices something fundamentally wrong.

 

He can hear Pete’s heartbeat, a dull, regular thud in his ears, pumping golden blood through his veins. Alive! Angel Pete is alive like he is, but then how come Patrick can only hear _Pete’s_ heartbeat?

 

No, it can’t be.

Patrick jolts up, with panic rushing through his body. He presses his hand against his own chest.

 

Nothing.

 

He feels flesh and muscles, the hard outlines of his ribs. His hand feels cold on his naked skin. No heartbeat.

He slides his hand up, cold fingertips searching for the carotid on his throat, for the pulse that proves the presence of life. It’s in vain.

 

Nothing. There’s just nothing.

 

“Did you finally figure it out?” Pete sits up, knees drawn to his chest. His wings are draped over him, embracing his body with snow-white feathers, white, Patrick doesn’t like white but on Pete, it looks so beautiful. Familiar. There’s a tear running down his face, gold, yes, that looks so pretty on him – oh, so it wasn’t blood that stained Pete’s face earlier out on the ice rink.

The stillness of his heart under his fingertips is overwhelming evidence.

 

“It’s me, Pete,” Patrick says slowly, “ _I’m_ the one who’s dead.”

 

The weight of the truth is felt as soon as the words leave Patrick’s lips. He craves Pete to deny them, waits for objection despite knowing better, they all have to wake up from this nightmare at one point. It can’t be, it just can’t, oh, nothing makes sense anymore and yet, everything is terribly clear.

A sudden realization hits Patrick hard. “You knew it,” Patrick whispers, and he wishes for Pete’s denial, doesn’t want it to be true. But Pete nods.

“You knew it!? Why didn’t you tell me?” Patrick stares angrily at the crying angel, watches more gold pour out of Pete’s eyes, tears that had been held back for so long.

Pete wipes over his face, the gold of his smile matching his tears. “I couldn’t tell you, Patrick,” he says softly, “don’t you get it? You had to realize it for yourself. You _knew_ it, too, you knew it all along – but your denial was strong enough to build a whole world to keep you protected from the truth. And to free yourself from it, you needed to tear it down yourself as well.”

 

Patrick presses his hand against his chest again. With every absent heartbeat, the world seems to fall apart. The skyline of the city, picture-perfect and serene, suddenly looks surreal. Lights too bright, snow too white, distorted perspective when Patrick tries to squint his eyes and make out the details.

 

“None of this is real?” Patrick barely recognizes his own voice when he speaks up again. There’s still nothing but cold silence under his fingertips.

Pete shakes his head. “It’s real, and yet it isn’t. We’re inside your soul, your own consciousness. _You_ exist, _you_ are real, but you’re trapped in this make-belief world warped to fit your broken memories.”

Patrick’s lungs are burning, the air feels like liquid fire. It’s still not hot enough to warm his marble-cold skin. Sharp nails bite crescent red moons into its paleness, bright pain that lets tears blur Patrick’s vision as all-too clear memories replay before his inner eye.

 

The snow, white and quiet, covering the entire world. The Ferris Wheel, up and running despite the weather conditions. Their van, revived from the graveyard of his mind for one last trip. Cherry-red Sundaes and sweetened kisses in the old diner, exactly like Patrick recalls it.

 

Outside the hotel window, the world explodes. Colors collide, the sky crashes down.

 

The motel, unchanged, a shelter untouched for many years since it only existed as a fragment of an old memory in Patrick’s mind. The site of the accident, grown over and healed, just as Patrick wished for. New York, picturesque, too bright and cheery to be real.

 

Behind the glass, nothing but sharp shapes and abstract figures remain, blurred light, all blending together. The horizon bends backwards, until it disappears forever, merges with the stars and the ground, becomes one with the universe behind the thin curtain of denial.

 

Patrick’s head hurts so much. So much. So much. Why does it hurt so much, why does he remember red, why – there’s Pete’s face, just like the angel sitting in front of him, but in his memories, Pete is screaming. Red trickles down Pete’s face, and there’s blood on his hands, his arms, it’s everywhere and it can’t all be his. The blood makes Pete scream, makes him cry, makes him hurt even though it’s not his own and Patrick doesn’t like it, he doesn’t like this at all, the red has to go.

The white of the hotel room is blending, perfectly intact despite the collapse of the outside world. White, Patrick remembers white. Cold snow. The sterile white of hospital rooms and pills and the flat line on a computer monitor. Death came to take _him_ , Patrick.

 

Patrick is shaking as he asks the one question that he is afraid to ask most. “Are _you_ real, Pete?”

“I am,” Pete says with a smile. Gold beams from it, just as pretty as the glimmer in his amber eyes. Never has Patrick been so happy to see it. Never has he been so happy to know Pete speaks the truth. “I’m me, but I didn’t get here unscathed as well. Why do you think I have wings, why am I an angel that bleeds gold? That’s _your_ doing, Patrick. I may be real, but I too have been twisted and turned into something that fits your dream.”

It all makes sense in its own weird ways. The wings of an angel, beautiful and ethereal, befitting for someone that Patrick viewed as a dead saint. The gold in his veins, so much prettier than the sight of red blood that Patrick can’t stomach. The tears which he never wanted to see Pete cry again, now elevated to something splendid, a piece of art, too precious to be shed carelessly.

“How did you get here?” Patrick reaches for Pete’s hand, who shies away from the touch. Patrick furrows his brows, irritated and afraid, but unwilling to take silence for an answer. “Tell me, Pete. How the fuck did you get here?!”

“I didn’t plan to just visit,” Pete admits softly. “I tried to join you here.”

“Tried to –“ The sentence goes unfinished. Patrick’s heart may not be alive, but it breaks nonetheless as realization settles in.

 

Red blood spilled from sliced wrists. White pills swallowed by an eager mouth. Golden eyes closing in the hopes of never opening again.

 

“I’m not dead. I couldn’t even do _that_ right. Pathetic, isn’t it?” Pete turns away, wings flapping nervously. “But I tried. It ended with me in the hospital, and I guess my actual, physical body is still there – sleeping… Three days, Patrick. Either I wake up, or I’ll stay asleep until my family pulls the plug on me.”

Patrick breathes heavily, the silent heart trapped in his ribcage screaming in pain and sorrow at these words.

“I missed you,” Pete continues quietly, “I missed you so much, every day, every fucking day. And the guilt, the fucking guilt – you could’ve been alive, if only I had protected you. If only I had never gotten you into this band. If only you had never known me. I thought it would only be fair to give you back the most precious thing I had to offer, and to return what I took from you – life itself.”

 

The words are a heavy weight on Patrick’s shoulders. “That’s not what I want. That’s not what I want _at all_ , Pete.”

 

With anger, Pete turns back to him, hands balled into fists, wings spreading to their full size as if to intimidate. “Then why did you think _I_ was the one who’s dead?”

 

“Deep down… I _knew_ that death had inevitably parted us,” Patrick whispers. “I wanted you to die first, so that you don’t have to live without me. I didn’t want to leave you behind. I didn’t want to abandon you. I didn’t want you to feel all alone and scared – oh Pete, I never wanted _any_ of this!”

 

Tears spill from baby-blue eyes, dissolving the white of the room into blurry contours.

 

Patrick cries, not only for Pete, not only for them, but for all the lost time between lovers torn apart everywhere.

 

Pete reaches out for him, cups his face in his hands. “Sometimes… Sometimes I think it should have been me.”

“Please don’t say that,” Patrick mumbles in response, eyes lowered, watching as a translucent tear makes its way down Pete’s wrist, then falls off into the white abyss surrounding them.

Pete shrugs, wings shuddering as he folds them back, feathers all tucked away again. “The world can live without me.”

Patrick shakes his head, thinks back to the diner. Illusion or not, it’s a mirror to the real world nonetheless. Somewhere, there’s careless laughter, friendships forming, lovers uniting. Ice cream Sundaes, pastel sunrises, a cloudless sky. The fur or a beloved pet, nature reclaiming her territory, new life and new hope born into the word.

 

“The world will _always_ go on,” Patrick says, knowing his words are both comfort and pain. “We’re tiny, unimportant specks in the grand scheme of the universe. But that doesn’t mean you’re not important to your loved ones.”

 

Pete draws him closer, feathers rustling softly as his wings mimic the gesture. The white of his wings is so much better than the white of the cold snow.

“Can you forgive me? For being the one who survived? For being alive? For moving on?”

Patrick shakes his head again. “I don’t need to. There’s nothing you’d need to ask forgiveness for. I don’t understand life, and death makes no sense to me either, but what I _do_ know is that none of this is your fault, Pete. You’re searching for a meaning in a senseless tragedy, just like me, and look what it did to us – you’re a comatose angel in my fever-dream of the afterlife. That can’t be the answer.”

 

Silence settles between them as Pete looks away, searching for the right thing to say, for a clear solution. But there’s nothing but white noise around them. “I searched so hard for it, Patrick, and yet… Maybe there _is_ no answer. No easy solution. No sense. No justice. No pretty words to drape over the dark and twisted tragedies of life.”

“I think you’re right. What you said… That’s the hardest thing to accept.” The words become more and more difficult to form, Patrick’s tongue feels so heavy. Pete slings an arm around him, his hold firm and reassuring, his nod encouraging Patrick to continue speaking. “But acceptance is necessary. I don’t want to go back into my mental prison, and I don’t want you to be lost in the limbo between life and death. I got my closure. And I have everything I need.”

 

Patrick smiles. Pete’s hand on his chest feels so warm, so reassuring, even if there’s no pulse underneath his fingertips. It makes him sleepy, oh so sleepy.

 

“Another shot at life – promise me you’ll try, Pete. A world that has _you_ in it, happy and alive, that’s the best gift I can ever get. It’s all I could ever ask for.”

 

Pete smiles back, wipes away a golden tear. “Even without you?”

 

Dead or not, Patrick’s heart aches nonetheless, still in his chest, a silent pain. And yet, he nods as he reaches out for Pete’s hand, wraps his fingers around Pete’s palm, thumbs away a smudge of wet gold. The answer is clear.

 

“Yes.”

 

Patrick gathers all his remaining strength to send Pete a grin, almost like back when they were two boys freshly in love, confident and cocky, believing the world to be theirs. The false reality is slipping away, yet Pete is still here, an anchor and a bright, golden beacon. “You’ll live a life without me, but part of your heart will always be mine. I love you. Nothing can take that from us. Don’t forget, okay?”

Pete smiles back at him, the most precious gift ever to be given. “Never.”

One last time, he feels the warmth of Pete’s lips on his own, feels Pete’s hot breath on his skin as Pete whispers: “I love you too.”

Dead or not, Patrick’s heart never fails to cherish these precious words, branded into it forever, both a burden and a relief, doom and promise, sadness and hope. He knows his own words are etched into Pete’s heart as well, and no matter what life holds for Pete, it can never take that away from them. One day, that piece of Pete will return to Patrick.

 

 

The whiteness surrounding them becomes overbearing. The warmth in Patrick’s chest spreads through his whole body, makes him feel pleasant and tired, excited and exhausted. The taste of Pete’s kiss still is still on his lips.

 

 

 

And when Patrick closes his eyes, and all he sees is gold.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is that the sounds of hearts breaking? I believe so.  
> Plot twist! And if you want to have your heart broken again, you can re-read the fic with the new knowledge and try pick up on all the signs of how it was Patrick and his perception of his dream-world that was so off...
> 
> This has been a very personal story to me in more than one way, and lots of the heavy themes here are thoughts that kept me up at nights too. Having it written out and woven into a storyline really helped dealing with it, and I am glad that I wrote this story despite how much it hurt. 
> 
> There's ice cream Sundaes and happiness for all of us somewhere; I believe so from the bottom of my heart. 
> 
>  
> 
> Please consider leaving a little comment with your thoughts or opinion, it would really mean a lot to me! Comments are what keeps me going. 
> 
> Find me [here](https://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com) on tumblr, I do more art there!
> 
> See you at my next fanfic, which is already in the works and which I promise won't be as sad as Angel Pete!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please consider leaving acomment, it would mean so, so much to me! It's all the encuragement that keeps a writer going. 
> 
> For more artwork, visit my tumblr [here](https://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com), and reblog the art - it helps a lot!
> 
> Thanks again, and see you next chapter!~


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